The Long and Winding Road
by Demented Inu
Summary: 50 prompts. 50 ficlets. Pairings include UKUS, PolLiet, FrUK, and others. Rating may change.
1. Walking

It's funny that Francis always manages to find himself here, on the steadily rocking, swaying floor of Arthur's ship. It makes him seasick, makes his stomach turn with each roll of waves that rocks the mighty thing upward, sending him flattened on the wooden deck.

Of course, it would be weeks later when he found it somehow worth it, back on the safety of his land; and Arthur's hand in his own as walk across the soft prickle of grass is almost like Heaven itself. The wind picks up and toys with their hair and when they break into a playful run, the entire world seems to bow at their feet.

And when they pause for breath, bent over panting, Arthur straightens and looks out at the setting sun across the distant waters and _yearns_.

Francis has always loved his lands, and always hated the restlessness of ocean, if only for the fact that the look in those green eyes never seems to be for _him_.


	2. Waltz

Somehow Alfred was still uncomfortable. Despite all of the lessons he'd given the boy, Alfred still refused to make his feet cooperate – Arthur supposed it was the rapid growth of the younger nation that was making his knees knock together every few moments, make the toes of his polished shoes scuff the floor, make the look on his face so very focused and frustrated.

"I can't do it!" Alfred whined, and Arthur let him pull away for now, pinching the bridge of his nose with a migraine.

"Not with that attitude of yours, you can't," he said in irritation. Really, how could he be expected to learn when he kept giving up every few moments? That wasn't how Arthur was raising him, and he made that clear with a stern look that made the boy frown a little, looking cowed.

"Look, see here, you're getting your steps all wrong." He tried sounding more helpful than annoyed, though they'd been at this for a good hour or so; it was only two days until the ball back in England, and he had to get Alfred into shape before he let his superiors look over the smaller colony. "One… two… one, two, one, two, yes, like that."

Alfred frowned and moved closer again, resting his hand up on Arthur's shoulder firmly. "Well, if I'm learning to dance to go to this bloody thing in the first place, then why in the world am I learning the _girl's_ part?"

It was a fair question, and Arthur paused to think about it. "I… suppose I wasn't thinking," he admitted; Alfred being shorter than himself, it just seemed more natural to assume the man's position. "But yes, you're right. Here, trade me places, America."

A bit awkwardly, Alfred shifted his feet before coming forward again. "Er… my hand goes…"

"Bloody hell, boy; look here, like this." Arthur reached and took Alfred's wrist in his hand, moved it so it rested flat against his hip. It was an odd position for it to be, but Alfred was a fast learner as usual and held it there with a firm grip –

Oh my. Yes, that was quite a firm hold he had, the buffalo-spinning strength really seeming to come in handy here. Arthur told himself that the little skip his heart made was simply because of surprise, and he cleared his throat, humming slightly as they turned for the dance.

It was really quite something, if he looked at it from an out-of-body experience and not from his own unsteady viewpoint. Heavens, the colony was moving smoothly now, in the correct position with his feet practically floating across the hardwood floor, one hand clasping Arthur's own, other on the little barely-there dip in his waist, and they spun slightly, causing him to go slightly dizzy.

Alfred's eyes were blue. Well, of course they were blue, but… they were _very_ blue. Wide-open and endless as the sky, pale lashes fanning whenever he blinked, and there was a color to his cheeks that Arthur had never noticed before. He didn't like being this close, or maybe he did like it, head light when Alfred's voice started humming along with his own, some very familiar song the both of them knew, and – and God, but Alfred was so tall now, almost as tall as himself and that thought was making his throat close up slightly –

"Arthur…?"

It was fine. All fine.

"Practice."

It was all too perfect, too nice, too fairy-tale and majestic and all those wonderful magical things that seemed to be so rapidly vanishing from his life, but this… this was good. That all he could think at the moment was that this was good, and Alfred's eyes were softening, clear and open and no barriers and… moving closer, they were moving closer, and their chests touched slightly, those eyes looking into his own and suddenly Arthur was losing the tune of the song – how did it go, how it sound, _badum badum badum_, or maybe that was his heart, which was thundering loudly, deafening him almost, and he couldn't handle this anymore, and Alfred looked so innocent and so sweet and so… grown-up in his formal clothing…

And Arthur's hold on Alfred was tightening a bit as well, and he was leaning in, and for a split second – and that was all he allowed was a split second – their breath mingled, mouths so very close, too close, Alfred's hands trembling slightly –

Panic shot through him (_'What are you doing, this is your boy! This is your colony, you bloody idiot, what are you doing?!'_) and he shoved Alfred away from him slightly, yanking back hard, breath a bit shaky and knees trembling and this was not happening, no, was just not going to happen, not now and not ever.

"A-Arthur?" Alfred's voice rang with surprise even when the softness of it was enough to make his heart twist. "What… what was…" He cleared his throat. "Did I do something wrong?"

"N… no…" Arthur had to force a sense of restraint into his tone. "No, lad, you… You didn't do anything wrong. I'm s…" He shook his head and brushed a hand through his hair and no, he couldn't be the one to take that from Alfred, couldn't be the one to do that, no matter how very tempting it was right now.

Alfred looked strange just then, eyes a bit downcast, and he just said, "Okay."

"I…"

There was silence and Arthur struggled for something to say.

"I, er, think you've gotten it." He shook his head in his own disbelief of himself and brushed something invisible from the front of his coat and left before he could be tempted to do anything else to scar the child.

(_'Bloody hell.'_)


	3. Wishes

(_Alfred had always told him that if he threw a penny down a wishing well, his hopes and dreams would come true_.)

Matthew Williams had always been alone.

And it wasn't the illusion of loneliness that his older brother experienced – Alfred surrounded himself with his nations, with Mexico and England and the Germans and Italies and everyone else that Canada could only sit back and watch (all those nations who would never once remember his own name) and yet Alfred still cried loneliness. Still swore on his grave that he was alone, despite the hundreds of faces surrounding him every single day.

No. Matthew knew loneliness; that deep cold that settled into his veins like the snow that was always catching in his hair, trying to convince himself he didn't need anyone or anything, though in his own heart, he cried out for attention.

It had always been this way. Sitting there alone atop North America, the border between him and his brother left unprotected and innocent, though nobody ever tried to invade him save for 1812 (and that had been just so ridiculous they both decided never to speak of it again), and nobody ever tried to attack him, and everybody dismissed him as transparent and invisible and unimportant.

His one shot at greatness had been with one Francis Bonnefoy.

France had been like a father to him before he'd gotten handed off to England. Sometimes Matthew still dreamed of France's elegant fingers smoothing back his hair, or singing to him, or pressing kisses to his forehead until he was so dizzy from the affection that he woke up to find himself curled up beneath his own covers, shaking.

France had been like a distant older brother to him after the trade, when Matthew would cower beneath England's great shadow and promise to never revolt, just please, don't hit him again. (England told him that cowardice must just be in his blood, being raised by France for so long.) France hadn't come to see him very often, and when he did, it was brief and quick and just _'Be good, Matthieu_' until Matthew was on his knees and begging for him to stay.

France had been absent for the entirety of Matthew's teenage years. Through all of the growing pains that burned his knees, made them bony and caused them to ache like anything, through the expansion and the crackling awkwardness of his voice, Matthew had to experience it alone, with only his brother to talk to for help. And Alfred was, of course, terrible at explaining anything to him ("You're growing up, Matty, that's all – the aches go away. Just wait till you're tall like me!"). Matthew longed for France to be there, make the pain go away or at least serve as a distraction – but he knew, deep down, that France wasn't coming back for him, and it was pointless to wait.

He was an adult now. All grown up (though France had, of course, missed all of it, and when they spoke, France was speaking to a nine-year-old, a colony, a boy) and on the verge of importance (though America always hogged the spotlight, but Matthew couldn't blame him; he was always so used to the cold anyway), and he attended conferences and dressed his finest and watched France with careful eyes, just in case he might look at him this time (look at him and not at England).

It was lonely. So very very lonely. Matthew tried to ignore that feeling, knew it was ridiculous and childish to want anything anymore, to want… to want France.

And that want had grown along with his body, morphed from a childhood need for a parent to something far more dangerous. He didn't want France's comfort anymore. No, now he wanted France himself. Matthew wanted to be the one to call him "Francis" and to run his hands through silky blond hair, kiss away the hunger from France's eyes, hold his hands and be…

Important.

Alfred had always told him that if he threw a penny down a wishing well, that his hopes and dreams would come to life.

The bottom of this well was full of Canadian coins, drowning in the dark dregs of water where he had thrown them…

And France still hadn't chosen him.

But still, Matthew waited, and wished for something he could never have.


	4. Wonder

As a child, Alfred Jones had loved a good challenge.

He was bright and he knew it; even if Arthur didn't tell him that as often as he used to, Alfred just knew. As a boy, living in the warm scone-smell of England's house (the scent of Earl Grey and fresh biscuits burned around the edges still lingering in his senses), he would try to keep himself occupied by building wooden models, or taking them apart to create something new and freshly-painted from their remains.

(You're such a brilliant boy.)

The new and functional toy would bring a smile to his face like no other, created anew from the carcass of broken playthings.

(_My bright little Alfred_. The heat of tea and blankets as fireplaces could never make him feel as warm as those words.)

He would be lying if he said he didn't miss it already.

Alfred like to try and ignore that lingering feeling pulling at his heartstrings until it faded into the dull throb of his own heartbeat, and then he would feel very small, and so very alone, because at least England had been familiar. His accent hadn't even faded yet. Arthur had loved him and cared for him and…

He missed it. God, he missed it. But his Puritans, his Separatists, they needed their freedom too, and he felt the need for their independence burning inside of him. Maybe he would be better off here, alone. Well, not alone… he had his few people, didn't he? His very, very few.

(And so many Thomases.)

But it was new. Startlingly, shockingly new.

The trees were different, the landscape. The people, such a peculiar people, speaking in tongues he didn't understand, wearing strange jewelry and not enough clothing, and it was frightening to think about staying here.

But he'd come this far. England had faith in him, and that drove him to hold steady and keep his people, his natives, happy. He couldn't possibly back out now.

(Well, maybe he could ask for some help or something. When tensions died down.)

The rain was colder here, and the water was salty and dirty when he drank it. Not like he'd imagined his New World to be. He simply wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat and watched his reflection in the water ripple whenever hit by a raindrop.

"The Puritans are saying that France is on his way from the north," a colonist spoke up from behind him. Alfred sighed and scrubbed a hand over his young face. Another bloody Thomas, no doubt. "He should arrive here in a few weeks' time."

"Does he want land?" Alfred asked, but knew the second he said it that it was pointless. Of course he did. France wouldn't stop until he had the whole planet at his ankles. But he had to keep it business. Don't be scared. Be more like Arthur.

"I dunno," Thomas said. "But he's been flirting with the natives. Learning their language, and participating in their rituals… Communicating. And trying to convert them to Catholicism."

Alfred turned and faced him. This Thomas was younger than he'd imagined. His powdered wig gave him a kind of baby face, with eyes wide, face rounded, with an aristocratic look on top of that. A rich brat. At least, richer than some of the other travelers that had come here.

"Bleeding Catholics."

With bitterness in his heart, he stormed away and past the half-built homes, the numerous subsistence crops, the brackish water churning in cloudy streams.

(Indian ground, originally. Finders keepers.)

Barely moved in, and already that prick France was trying to sway his natives, horning in on his land. No doubt Arthur would have a conniption when he found out.

(Maybe he should ask for help.)

Ridiculous.

_'How could England ever think I could grow up to be wonderful?_'

_'I'm just a stupid kid_.'

* * *

**_A/N_**_: Thank you guys for so many favorites! Reviews are greatly appreciated as well, of course. Upcoming chapter: Worry, in which Alfred adds a shot of espresso to his morning coffee._


	5. Worry

It had started to become a terrible habit, in the mornings, to wake up and add a shot of espresso to his morning coffee.

Not that Arthur was paying any kind of particular attention to the way Alfred prepared his morning beverage – no, it was just something that stuck out like a sore thumb… was that being redundant? Everything American stuck out like a sore thumb. The boy couldn't walk into a bloody airport without catching the attention of nearly everyone there.

It was probably because he was so damn beautiful. Yes, that must be it, Arthur assured himself, and then felt a little jealous that so many could look at it so openly, and he had to hide his eyes whenever Alfred caught him… well, looking.

Anyway. The coffee.

Alfred added a shot of espresso to his coffee in the mornings. Despite all those waving-hand gestures and half-smiles and insistence that he was "trying to cut down on caffeine," he added espresso.

Just one cup of coffee, right when he got up. And then another one at breakfast, in which he added yet another espresso shot. (The lad still wolfed down his eggs and bacon like he was starving – hadn't Arthur taught him any manners?)

Sometimes, when Alfred would come and stay the night at Arthur's house when the International Conference was held in London (which it hadn't been, not in a long while, not after that last storm – no, everybody loved bloody _Paris _now), Arthur would drive him to the building. Alfred always insisted on stopping off at the nearest donut shop to grab extra food; but of course, he came out without the donuts, and just got the coffee instead.

With espresso. Of course.

And then at the Conference, Arthur pretended not to notice how Alfred's fingers tapped impatiently on the table as he waited for the Mr. Coffee to come up with a full pot, at which point he would just pour two cups – one for himself, and then another one for himself.

No espresso this time, but only because there was none available.

Alfred would be on the phone with important Chancellors or Ministers or other such vital people, and his cup would go cold, and he would go and retrieve another cup of coffee.

And at lunch, Arthur followed Alfred out to the nearest Starbucks as he got himself an espresso.

They would stop at McDonald's; Alfred would order a Big Mac and a Diet Cola ("Everyone's drinking diet these days, you know," he told him, and Arthur would just tell him that he wasn't hungry, thank you).

He would order two sodas. Just in case he got thirsty on the drive.

By the afternoon, the poor boy would be so overcaffeinated that he was convinced he was going to have a heart attack, and would develop a migraine, popping a few Aspirin, and Arthur tried getting him to calm down and had even gone to the measure of removing all caffeinated beverages from Alfred's home as well as his own.

"This isn't healthy, you know," Arthur tried to tell him, making jokes about having to call an intervention between him and his bloody caffeine, and Alfred almost cried at one point because he said he needed his coffee so bad that if he didn't have it, he…

And it was now that Arthur noticed the bags under the blue eyes. The paleness of complexion. The tremble in those normally steady hands that, as much as Arthur tried to calm them by holding them in his own, wouldn't go away.

His boy. Sleep-deprived and shaking.

"What's been happening to you?"

"Nothing, I'm fine."

"You're not fine." _I know fine and this isn't it._

And Alfred just shook his head and tried to smile and insisted he was all right, and really, Artie, you shouldn't worry so much – you'll give yourself a tumor.

Worried. Worried? No. No, he wasn't worried. Not at all. Because Alfred didn't need to be worried over, right?

Right?

…right?

_Right._

Because Alfred was _"fine."  
_


	6. Whimsy

If anyone had asked Germany what he'd thought of Italy at the beginning of World War One, he would have replied that Italy was nothing but an idiot.

Feliciano had a permanent look of idiocy on his face – the half-shut eyes, that smile on his face as if everything was okay – and his voice echoed with giggles and laughter and happiness and everything that shouldn't have ever been apparent, not in the middle of battle (not ever).

Italy was an idiot. A weak, childish idiot who was too fond of painting and pasta, and not at all serious when it came down to war and fighting and… the important things.

What had Prussia said? Oh yes. Italy was _whimsical_.

Germany supposed that was the more polite way of calling him stupid.

And really, when it came down to it, his opinion of Italy hadn't drastically changed over the World Wars, over the fifties and the seventies and the nineties. He still thought that Italy should shape up when the time came to be serious. He still believed that Italy could be childish sometimes, and he still wanted to wipe that dopey smile from the too-kind face.

But Italy wasn't an idiot.

By no means was Italy an idiot.

No, Germany saw that now. Italy wasn't stupid, just… optimistic. He saw a brighter side of things than Germany ever could. It was one of the qualities that had made Germany agree to be friends with him in the first place, if he was honest with himself.

Italy could look at the death and devastation around them and explain that things could only go up from there, even though Germany had been raised to believe that once things hit rock bottom, they stayed at rock bottom.

Italy could smile through the wars and the blood. Could just look up to the sky as the ashes began to fall one by one (six million, six innocent million, and that didn't include so many others) and tell him that it looked like snow.

Italy could tell him that he had a chance for redemption.

And if that was childish…

Well. Then Germany wished that he could be childish as well.

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**A/N:**_ Reviews are always appreciated, as always! I wasn't so happy with this one, felt like there could've been more depth to it, so expect an expansion of this later on as a separate story. Next chapter: Wasteland, in which Lithuania finds safety where he never would've expected._


	7. Wasteland

"Toris?"

He was used to the name by now in place of the playful "Liet" he usually heard. But he couldn't place the voice just yet – it wasn't Russia (_ne_, he knew Russia and this voice wasn't it, not full of that false cheer that read 'loneliness' or the tone of a cat playing with a three-legged mouse), and it wasn't Estonia or Latvia (both full of reason, both full of terror and trembling and on the verge of tears), and it wasn't China or Ukraine or Belarus or any of the other guests and visitors that Russia usually had in his vast home.

This voice called that name – Toris – with a sense of hesitance, underlined with an urgency for him to wake.

"Toris, are you okay?"

Was he okay? He didn't know. He knew that his head was throbbing with a dull stomping ache that made his vision swim unpleasantly when he opened his eyes to be greeted by blinding light. Toris knew that he had fallen asleep on the snow-blanketed flat of Russia's front step with a deep gash in his side, but the snow around him served as a quick anesthesia.

(Belarus told him that her brother's house was like a permanent sense of Christmas, and he just couldn't gather the faith to notice. He didn't deserve Ivan's kindness and he knew it.)

He couldn't feel his toes, or his side, and his eyes were aching as they worked to focus on the speaker.

Oh. Yes, this would be the one to rescue his damsel-in-distress self from the clutches of hypothermia, wouldn't it?

"How long… h-how long have I been as-asleep?" Toris stammered out, though from fear or shivering he'd never know.

America's face wasn't like Toris remembered it, sitting in the back of the conference room and pretending to listen to the lectures he gave on global warming (a giant space robot to shield the earth) or world hunger (just create the serum to create giant food – no one will ever be hungry again) and other such topics that really would solve themselves, given time. No, America's face was much kinder than he thought it would be. It wasn't like Russia's in the slightest – this face had the soft and youthful features of a nation barely out of his teens, and his shoulders were broad but thin under his bomber jacket.

Blue-sky eyes watched him in concern. "About a day and a half," America replied. "I was starting to get worried… you okay, man? Went to go talk to Russia about our weapons, and saw you on the doorstep… you don't look so good."

Toris went to sit up but got dizzy and had to lie back down. The bed he was in was large and comfortable, if a bit worn, and the sheets had been fabric softened out of recognition, making it feel like he was sleeping on a very warm cloud. He gathered the comforter in his shaking hands and pulled it further up, balling under the covers.

"I-I-I'm fine," he managed, but felt embarrassed because he realized he was shirtless – oh, Dievas, perfect, shirtless in a world power's house. "Um… um, why am I…?"

America's eyebrows furrowed for a minute before he seemed to realize. "Oh! Oh, your shirt?" Toris nodded. "Yeah, uh, well, you seemed to be hurt, and I brought you here to give you some first aid…" When America leaned forward, reaching for him, Toris instinctively flinched back with his arms coming up to cover his face.

"Don't--!"

But America's hand just pulled the cover back a little and pointed to the bandages now wrapped around Toris's middle. "See? Just first aid stuff. What…" He quieted a little; Toris lowered his arms, breath catching. "Russia did that to you, right?"

He wasn't sure if he should answer that or not. "I… t-_taip_, but it's no big deal, I mean…" Toris couldn't stand that look on America's face. Behind his glasses, the eyes were pitying and held a longing to help. "I've… I've been through worse."

That didn't help. America raised his eyebrows before his eyes narrowed, expression turning almost angry. It made Toris's heart skip a beat and quicken its pace – he knew that look; it was one that led to nuclear war, and Toris prayed it wasn't aimed at himself.

"Bastard," the other growled a little, before his expression softened again. "Look, you don't have to take crap from that guy as long as you're here. I won't ever… stab you or… whatever the fuck that psychopath does to you. You can take refuge here if you want."

Refuge. The word was foreign as it settled in Toris's mind. Stay here, with America, in cloudy beds and this house that smelled like cheap coffee and fast food… or go back to Russia, knowing that the giant would be awaiting his return with a sick smile and a lead pipe that hungered to come into contact with his skin.

He could take refuge here in this overcrowded country, or go back to the ice-and-snow loneliness of Russia.

"I… you'd let me stay here?"

"Yeah, of course I would." America's voice sounded almost desperate, actually. "You could stay here. I mean, I know you're used to Russia's house, but… you wouldn't have to do anything here, really, besides maybe help clean up a little, or…" He shook his head. "Yeah, you can stay if you want to."

Toris had never been offered refuge before. Had never… been tempted to leave Russia's house, not since his younger days when he was full of anger and bloodthirst, when he and Feliks would tear down cities together, fight for the sake of fighting, go hand-in-hand and conquer.

And here was this child of a nation, extending his hands and offering sanctuary; and Lithuania, older and more broken that he'd ever been, was taking it.

"I want to… I want…" He felt the waver in his voice and his eyes welling with tears at the pure and untouched kindness of America's words, and he was shaking again, sobbing because it was so…

America didn't even hesitate to bring Toris into his arms and just hold him. "Stay with me."

It was so _warm_ here.

No wasteland of ice and snow could ever compare to this.

* * *

A/N: So that's my America/Lithuania. It's a pairing I haven't really tried before, but I thought it came out well. Next chapter: Whiskey and Rum, in which Arthur gets very drunk, and Alfred has a realization.


	8. Whiskey and Rum

It had been a long time since Alfred had seen Arthur this drunk.

He remembered being small, still a colony on the cusp of puberty, back when he'd had to look up to see the British Empire properly. Arthur had been fond of alcohol back then, perhaps a bit too fond of it, and he drank quite a bit, and would sing to him in a slur or pet his hair or tell him stories about knights in gleaming armor and kings and swords, and Alfred wouldn't even mind the smell of booze on his older brother's breath because it offered a closeness he didn't really get otherwise.

This was a far different case, of course. This time Arthur had been the one to thrust a bottle of… whatever it was, in front of Alfred, urging him to drink it.

Weird.

He didn't, of course. Maybe it had been a sense of hesitance because normally, Arthur would never offer him anything, let alone alcohol; or maybe it had been some sort of insane obedience to his own law. He was only nineteen in human terms, wasn't supposed to drink, no matter how much he wanted to.

Well, whatever. So he didn't touch the stuff.

Arthur did.

Alfred watched as Arthur drank… and drank… and drank some more, and just when the bartender had been hesitant to offer him any more for fear of collapse, Arthur fell into Alfred and proceeded to cry.

He cried about France, and cried about Ireland, and cried about his imaginary fairy friends, and cried about his economy and the war and he cried about—he cried about the Revolution and 1776, and Alfred could do nothing but stand there and… hold him upright, try petting his hair and keeping him calm even when Arthur started hitting at his chest.

Alfred didn't like this effect that alcohol had on Arthur – making him weak and clingy and weeping like a woman from one of Hollywood's films – and didn't like the feeling of guilt and upset that coiled in Alfred's own stomach at hearing the blame spout from those lips.

And the next day, it was like nothing had happened; Arthur went back to calling him variations of an idiot, Alfred went back to mocking his cooking.

Nobody ever had to know that underneath everything, they missed each other like nothing else, and that Alfred's dreams consisted of nothing but Arthur's blame.

* * *

**A/N:**_ Again, I didn't really like this one so much... but eh. Next chapter: War, in which Alfred realizes that his soldiers are younger than he ever was._


	9. War

_For Kanki Youji and Savcat_

"Spagna…?"

Other than the almost hesitant whisper in Romano's voice, the entire room was quiet. The soles of Italy's boots made little step-step sounds against the hard floor, and they echoed off the high walls and cavernous ceiling. Spain pretended not to hear the other for a long moment; the tranquility of the building went undisturbed for a few moments longer before he turned and looked back from where he was kneeling.

"Ah, mi Lovino…" Antonio offered the best smile he could, which wasn't as bright as it normally was. "What are you doing here so late? How did you find me?"

Romano raised his eyebrows and when he next spoke, it was a tad louder. "Whenever you're not in the house, I know you're either at France's house or at church. You're really predictable." He narrowed his eyes, and Antonio didn't point out that he didn't answer the first part of the question as to why he came looking in the first place. He knew Romano wouldn't like it. "Why go to church at three in the morning, idiot?"

Antonio turned back around, not saying anything when Romano came and knelt beside him. His eyes didn't look up to the large wooden cross at the front, the Savior's eyes empty and sad like so many other eyes lately. "I came to pray."

There was only a short moment of silence and Antonio pretended not to notice Romano looking at him with something that could only be called concern. "How long have you been here, Boss?"

"Oh, since about…" His voice trailed off into something like silence, and his breath was trembling a bit but he kept his back straight so as not to break down in front of Romano.

"…Spagna…" Romano's voice lowered again. "How long have you been here?"

He couldn't see straight, vision swimming and making him dizzy, and he realized it was because of tears flooding his eyes. Odd, he didn't remember starting to cry, and he turned his face away before Romano had to see them, wiping them away with his sleeve like some kind of child.

He remembered Romano being that small, scraping his knees while playing with Feliciano, and his eyes would swim with tears as Antonio smoothed bandages over the scrapes. "You're okay," he would whisper, "mi Lovino, you're okay."

_Why couldn't Romano be that small anymore? Small enough to hold and kiss and sing "Ave Maria" until his voice cracks._

"Just a few hours," Antonio whispered. "I am… praying for my friends. They seem to have lost their way."

Romano nodded slowly and turned his face away to look up at the wooden body of Christ before them. "You're not going to… get involved, are you?" he asked. "This war… it's worse than World War Two. We're going to be fighting this war with nuclear weapons, sure, but the next one… well, World War Four will be fought with sticks and stones, won't it, if America is serious about wiping out the Middle East…"

Without thinking, Antonio put a finger to Romano's mouth. "Don't… talk about it, _mi nino_." His heart was heavy with the thought, especially since America had not only included Russia and Germany in this war, but England and France as well. France was already prepared for a complete surrender against Pakistan and Iran's invasion – and in turn, Spain was prepared to help him pick himself up if it came to it.

(How do you "pick up" a nation smeared across the floor like gum?)

"Do you want me to…" Romano waved his hands a bit helplessly. "Want me to pray with you?" He cleared his throat. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy—"

"Romano." He saw the other look at him, brown eyes wide and wonderful and so… so innocent, why did someone so innocent have to be involved in such a terrible, terrible thing? And his heart twisted and he wanted to take the younger into his arms and kiss him.

And he almost did.

"Sing with me, Romano."

Romano nodded. "Sure, Boss."

Knelt before a wooden crucifix, with Jesus Christ's eyes watching them, the two nations sung "Ave Maria" until their voices rang through the air, from the stained-glass depictions of Santa Maria and all of the Patron Saints that Antonio had grown up worshipping, and he could feel his heart swelling and swelling even when the bombs (stars and stripes painted sloppily along the side) began to fall.

And when Romano reached over and took his hand, tears ran down his face, and they kept singing until their voices gave.

_Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen._

_

* * *

_

**A/N:**_ So I actually changed this from what it originally was -- originally it was supposed to be an America piece, about the tragedies of battle, but I've moved that into another prompt because this one just flowed from my mind. It was surprisingly easy, even though I've never written the pairing before. Next chapter: Weddings. Prussia, for some reason, has always hated the sickening gag-reflex romance of holy matrimony._


	10. Weddings

If there was one thing that Prussia absolutely hated, it was a wedding.

The entire atmosphere of the thing was just sickening – vows of everlasting love, two people gazing deep into one another's eyes, fucking sighing and batting their eyelashes and making him want to ralph all over the bride's pretty dress.

(Elizaveta used to say that she'd always wanted a big, extravagant wedding. Flowing white dress and a tall handsome groom, and the dance afterward would be romantic enough to make her heart ache instead of just her feet. Gilbert had told himself he'd work on it.)

And then there was the goddamn groom, looking so fucking full of himself all the time, standing up nice and straight in that monkey suit like some kind of store-window mannequin. The groom always looked so damn nervous, shuffling those shoe-polish feet of his, waiting as the bride walked down the aisle like some kind of prize for him.

(Roderich had told him that taking a woman's hand in marriage was something he'd always dreamed of doing – a beautiful woman in twirling gown, with her waist small enough to put his arm around, her smile bright enough to blind him. He wanted her full and smiling and round-faced and tan-skinned, and Gilbert had looked down at his own albino body, his own broad chest, and laughed until tears traced his face.)

It wasn't really the bride and groom he had a problem with, though. In fact, he hoped they were fucking happy together, some kind of fairy tale, living happily-ever-after without Gilbert there to bring their hopes and dreams crashing to the ground.

He didn't know what it was he hated about weddings. He just knew they made him sick to his stomach.

(Face pressed up to the stained-glass window of the church and peering in, watching Elizaveta's tearful smile as she threw her arms around her new husband and kissed him full on the mouth, watching Roderich's surprised expression before his own smile lit his face and he returned it with enthusiasm he'd never shown for Gilbert, no, neither of them, not in all their time together.)

Weddings.

(Rattling the doorknob and screaming to be let inside, half-laughing wand half-sobbing, heart just about breaking in his chest.)

If there was one thing Gilbert absolutely hated, it was weddings.

(If there was one thing Gilbert loathed, it was being alone.)

* * *

**A/N:**_ I've never written anything involving Prussia before, so this was a definite first, and I'm actually fairly happy with the way it came out. Next chapter: Birthday, in which Canada receives an unexpected call._


	11. Birthday

"Ready, Kuma?"

The bear at his feet just looked up as if not quite remembering why he was here. That was okay; Matthew smiled at him, reaching down to scratch behind his ear a bit before taking up a match, lighting it against the wood of the table.

It was cold, but the slight heat the match gave was warm and comforting as he lit the candles. "I know humans put as many candles as their age, but that would be kind of hard for us nations, right?" He laughed a little, though his chest ached with loneliness as he looked around and saw just himself and his bear. Again. It was always just the two of them, wasn't it?

Oh well. Today was a special day, even if nobody remembered – July first was always overshadowed, it seemed, by July fourth, but he didn't mind so much because it made his brother happy. Here in just a few days, he knew Alfred would call and give him the opportunity to be the first one to wish the United States of America a happy birthday, even though it was around two in the afternoon now in Canada, and Alfred had yet to call.

Not that he would. He never did remember to, not even after two centuries of their brotherhood – hell, longer than that.

It didn't matter. Today was Matthew's birthday and nothing could bring him down about it.

The candle flame flickered pleasantly and gave off a dim light as he sighed. "Here goes nothin', right, eh?"

He started humming Happy Birthday to himself, heart heavy in his chest, and he stroked the ever-confused Kumajirou as he did so. "Happy Birthday to me… happy birthday to me… happy birth-"

A loud ringtone cut him off in the middle of his song, causing him to get startled and jump slightly, nearly knocking over the cake as he did so. Panting, he clutched at his chest and fumbled for his cell phone – did Alfred remember this year, finally? It was almost too good to be true.

"Um… hello, eh?" he all but gasped into the phone.

"_Allo_, _Matthieu_," came the accent from the other end. Matthew's heart jumped into his throat. "_C'est ton anniversaire, non_?"

Matthew was in awe. France… calling him? France, remembering his name, let alone his birthday? It was too much, must be a prank, nobody ever remembered…

"Yes… I mean, um, _oui_, it's my birthday." Matthew cleared his throat. "Why?"

France laughed a bit. "Oh, silly boy, I called to wish you a _bonne anniversaire_, of course!" He could practically hear the flourish of hands from here. "You are growing up. I am so proud of you, _Matthieu_."

Really, really too much to ask for. He felt tears in his eyes suddenly and it was difficult to swallow, and he clutched the phone hard. "…thank—er… _Merci_, France."

"_De rien, mon fil_. Have a happy birthday, _d'accord_?"

"_D-D'accord_." Matthew's grin split his face even after France hung up. He turned to Kumajirou, smiling widely, and laughed. "_Bonne anniversaire a moi, bonne anniversaire a moi…_"

This was possibly the best birthday he'd ever had. No amount of Alfred's fireworks could ever compare to this.

France was_ proud of him._

* * *

**A/N:**_ Short but sweet. Next chapter: Blessing, in which the Holy Roman Empire realizes that the task of telling Chibitalia how he feels is much more difficult than any war could ever be._


	12. Blessing

The tremble in his voice was downright embarrassing and he knew it, but still he squared his shoulders and looked up up up at the tall nation. "Au… Austria?"

Roderich turned and looked at him from behind his lenses. "What is it, Holy Roman? I trust that Italy isn't bothering you."

Holy Roman Empire shook his head hastily. "Oh—no, no, she could never bother me. I was… well…" He shuffled his little feet and frowned and wasn't sure how to say it. "I wanted to ask…"

"You want to leave?"

Holy Roman looked up at him again, adjusted his large hat, and nodded. "Yes… I think I'm ready to fight my holy war. I want to become the new Roman Empire, and I can't do that unless I go. I just wanted to let you know first."

Austria's face depicted something like sadness. "Italy won't be happy with this."

It hurt to hear. Of all things, he didn't want to leave his Italy behind, not when he hadn't gotten to say what his tongue-tied heart wished him to say. Every time he saw her face, round and tearful beneath the brown hair framing it, his heart thundered too loudly in his ears and he suddenly forgot how to speak.

He didn't want to just… leave her here. He wanted to tell her everything he wanted to, wanted to hold her and tell her he loved her – had loved her since he first saw her – and convince her to come away with him. Together they could form the new Rome, become big and strong like Austria and Hungary had done.

There was so much left to say and do, but war was calling him, and he felt the need to fight for his cause tug at his heart.

"I… I want to tell her that I…" Tears were in his eyes and they stung and this was ridiculous – big nations didn't cry, so why should he – and he scrubbed at his face with his little hands.

Austria nodded and leaned over to put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll tell her for you, if you like."

"No! No, I want… I want to tell her myself."

Foreboding filled him, dread weighing him down, but he turned and his robe swished around his tiny legs. "Send her out after me. I'm going to try one more time."

Austria nodded. "Ludwig…" Holy Roman turned to him briefly. "I wish you happiness. You and Italy… you have my full support."

"…thank you."

With his eyes set forward and shoulders set square, the Holy Roman Empire marched out of the house to meet his army, though the task of telling Italy how he felt about her was the quest that really made him nervous.

* * *

**A/N**_: Thank you guys for so many favorites! I would also really appreciate reviews! Next chapter: Bias. There is a reason that Toris is Ivan's "favorite."_ _His obedience is not the reason._


	13. Bias

The first thing he noticed when he woke up, just like he did every morning, was that his legs hurt.

Of course, Russia always made sure never to hit him unless he 'deserved it' – sick bastard, sick sick sick, and Toris was shaking and trying to stand on his fractured legs. He'd thought this kind of behavior was for children, marking property, claiming toys as all one's own, but apparently it was for psychopathic giants as well. He shifted in his chains (a broken shackle around each ankle, keeping him there, as if he could really leave right now with his legs broken like this) and looked up and around him for the window.

Ah yes, there it was. A small window high up on the wall, but big enough so that if Toris sucked in his stomach, he could probably fit through. There were a few boxes left down here as well so that he could stack them up, climb to get up there and make his escape. He wondered idly if Feliks had noticed his absence yet, and came to the conclusion that even if he had, there was no way Poland could go up against Russia. No way in Heaven and Hell would that ever come out the way Toris wanted it to. Feliks was strong, yes, but not strong enough to take on this kind of brute force.

So. He just had to find his own way out, then. Shouldn't be too hard, right?

Toris's lip was split and his eye bruised, knee bent awkwardly, but still he stood and shifted and shuffled over to those boxes, trying to straighten them out to make something like stairs. Getting out, he was getting out, no matter what it took. He couldn't take any more 'games' this week.

"What are you doing, Toris?"

Dievas, there was that forcefully cheerful voice, sing-song and smiling like it was a fucking game of house. Toris turned, sending his most heated glare back at the much taller nation, baring his teeth.

"I'm through playing with you, Russia. I need out of here, I need to go home, and if you won't let me go, I'll find my own way out!" He was panting, voice cracked from screaming so loudly yesterday (Russia had only laughed at the little snapping sounds his knees made when bent the wrong way), but he put force behind it.

Russia raised his eyebrows but his smile didn't waver. "Oh? You want outside?" He said it like he was speaking to one of the snow dogs, and he came forward down the stairs, into the cellar, reached and took a handful of Toris's shirt, the nice green one that Feliks had bought for him on his last birthday, telling him it matched his eyes.

"If you're a good boy, and you play my game by the rules this time, I'll let you outside for a walk, da?" Russia laughed like a small child. "Oh, but if you misbehave like you did yesterday… tsk, I'm afraid I'll have to punish you again. I don't tolerate undisciplined pets."

"P-pets?" Toris spat the word, reached up took hold of Russia's wrist, still glaring. "I told you, I'm through playing! I don't want to play anymore, I want out, you fucking stupid child! Let me go, bastard, let me go! I'll kill you, I swear to fucking God I'll kill you!"

Russia's face darkened suddenly and his free hand lifted up, wielding some kind of… faucet pipe or something, and Toris didn't even have time to flinch before it came crashing down on his head. He whimpered softly, hand going slack and falling to his side, and he felt blood mat his hair.

"I do not take kindly to being threatened or insulted!" Russia scolded in a voice far from his childish one. "You are misbehaving again, Toris. We are going to play a game, da, and we are going to play it by my rules or you will have to worry about more than just a concussion and broken legs!"

Oh, this wasn't good, no, not at all, and he couldn't see straight, his vision spinning uneasily. "Fuck… Fuck you…"

Again, the pipe came crashing down on him, this time on his ribs, and he heard the crack as two of them broke, followed by the numbness that had set in yesterday as well. He couldn't breathe quite right now, each inhalation causing a sharp pain, and his eyes squeezed shut, teeth bit down on his lip to keep from crying out.

Russia dropped the pipe and instead brought the hand up to close around his throat, pinning him to the wall above the ground, so his feet dangled. "Now. You are obviously not in the mood to play, da? Da. We will do something else, then. Since you are being so stubborn."

Toris couldn't breathe. Couldn't talk or make any kind of sound, just tried to force in air, hands back up to his wrist and clawing at it desperately, lungs starting to ache from the lack of oxygen. His mouth hung open and eyes were wide and wet, and he watched Russia pop the buttons on his green jacket, sending them skating along the floor. "Wh… Rus… what…"

"We are going to make you one with Russia now, Toris. Doesn't that sound good, da?" Russia nodded. "One with Russia is better than games." He opened up the jacket and slipped his hand inside to grope around his chest for a moment, sending Toris into a full panic, trying to bring up his legs to push him away, but they were broken and just hung there limply. His hands were up and pushing at him, and he still couldn't breathe, and he was starting to see spots, so he took fistfuls of Russia's hair and yanked as hard as his weakened state could manage.

Russia cursed loudly and threw Toris to the ground. The latter erupted into a fit of coughing and gasping, blue lips regaining color and face flushing again as he clawed at the ground to stand.

"You are taking my kindness for granted!" Russia shouted at him, kicking the already-cracked ribcage. Toris cried out and curled into a ball, shaking. "You complain about the games, so I let you become one, and you continue to act this way! Niet, this is not the way my pets are to be behaving! I won't stand for it!" Getting on the ground, he rolled Toris onto his stomach and held him down. "I will show you what happens when you tell Russia no!"

Toris screamed, tried to fight his way out of that hold, but he was being crushed to the floor and felt the back of his shirt being torn after the removal of his coat. This wasn't good, no, no, this wasn't good at all, and he growled and thrashed and snarled and tried to look menacing, but that was difficult when being pinned down by someone like Russia – the man was like a bear, all brute strength and force and 'Don't fuck with me' written over him. And Toris was an idiot for thinking he could ever fight this man, but he had to try, had to do something—

There was pain, suddenly, and he stiffened and cried out. Something cold and sharp was slicing into him, right at his lower back; the blood washed over his skin and he trembled violently, almost seizing, under that hold. "Gh—stop! Stop, Russia, stop it!"

"You did not want to play a game. You did not want to become one. So we will do this, to show you that it would be wise to do as I say."

"Russ—"

"You have been a very misbehaved pet, Toris."

It continued on that way, each new cut going deeper, and sometimes he messed up and had to go back and do the gouge over again. When it was over, Russia pulled back and admired his work, and licked the knife clean of Toris's blood like it was jam.

"There. Da, now you are just the way you should be."

Toris shook and sobbed and tried getting up but only slipped in his own blood and fell again, gasping. "Stop… stop it… please, whatever you want, I'll do whatever you want…"

Broken. He had been a wild stallion before, but now he was nothing more than broken. Ashamed of his own weakness, he turned his face away and cried.

"Now you will be my pet, Toris. Just the way you should be."

_(In a few days' time, when he would look in the mirror, he would see the word "favorite" written in Russian across his back.)_

"My favorite pet."

* * *

**A/N:**_ This one was certainly darker than the previous ones, and expect more of it. Hope you had as much fun reading it as I had writing it. Next chapter: Burning. France should have known better than to fall in love with a human, especially when England knew._


	14. Burning

The wind dragged through his long hair like fingers as he urged his horse faster and faster and faster down the path.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. He couldn't call a meeting with his government without Arthur losing his mind behind his back? Non, it wasn't true, because that would be ridiculous, she didn't do anything wrong, but still he went faster and faster, panicking, even though he knew that there would be no stopping it.

He dismounted when he came to the location, practically leaping off his horse, stumbling a bit as he hit the ground and running forward. He saw the figures in the distance, saw Arthur's silhouette against the backdrop of sunset, dragging a smaller figure behind him, though the smaller didn't put up much of a fight.

Non. Non, non, non, non, non.

"_You keep smiling at me. Do you have a crush on me, Monsieur Bonnefoy?"_

"_Quoi?" Francis laughs, though a little awkwardly, and tries to seem composed. "S'il vous plait, mademoiselle, that would be improper. A young woman such as yourself? You deserve far nicer than me." He smiles at her once more, and she laughs this time. "Though I must admit, you are one to catch the eye, non?"_

_Her face brightens and she shoves at him, playfully. A child. Just a child. _

"_You are not so homely yourself, monsieur. I am surprised a young woman such as myself has not whisked you away for her own yet."_

England was tying her down. Francis was sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him. Her head was down and she seemed dazed, not quite herself, dizzy – her small feet were bare as they scraped the wood of the cross.

It was a cross. They were tying her to a cross.

Francis felt tears start pricking his eyes and his heart hammered and he shouted her name at the top of his lungs, catching England's attention. England turned to face him fully and squared his narrow shoulders like he was ten feet tall – and held up a torch.

The girl at the cross began to wake.

_Francis can't help but blush at her remark – he knows he's good-looking, but he isn't one to show it off, and her comment has caught him off guard. _

_She laughs. "You're red!" she teases, and reaches over to tug his sleeve. "Look at that, strong Monsieur Bonnefoy, red in the face from a simple compliment!"_

"_You…" He frowns a little and sits straighter. "You were implying something, non, cherie? It sounded almost like you were flirting with me!"_

_The girl is young, but her eyes are older than she is by far, and her smile is ten years younger than herself. "That's because I was, silly! I thought you were meant to be the nation of love! Why are you so blind when it comes to people expressing an interest in you?"_

_Francis is beet red now, but he feels a bit hopeful, surprisingly. "I am used to being the one 'expressing an interest,' mademoiselle, not the other way around."_

"Fran… Francis…" He couldn't hear her speak, but her lips moved around his name, and he was growing tired but adrenalin kept him going. Her short hair was framing her face messily, choppily, her eyes wide and pleading. "Francis, _s'il vous plait_…"

England urged him onward, taunting in those eyes. "Come and save her," his eyes told him. "If you love her, come and rescue her." And he tried, he tried so hard, reaching and screaming her name and half-crying before a group of Englishmen grabbed him around the arms and held him back.

He tried fighting them off, and the girl was shouting for her cross, she needed her cross, and was crying out his name and begging for him to be by her side. Her frame was so small against the large structure, thin, and as much as she pulled at the ropes holding her in place, they wouldn't break. It was over. They all knew it was over.

"Angleterre! Angleterre, please, don't-! Please, don't, don't!" His feet dug into the ground as he tried to force himself forward. "Please, Angleterre-!"

Sobbing, panicking, hair fraying from his ponytail to come around his face, and England just closed his eyes and turned to her -- and dropped the torch.

"_Does this mean you have an interest in me, then?" the girl asks him, no more than seventeen, a glint in her eyes unlike any he's ever seen before. It makes his heart jump up into his throat. "Is that why you keep smiling at me?"_

Francis felt his heart about break in two as he saw her head tip back, saw her feet try to come up and away from the flames licking at them, saw her mouth open in a scream of agony.

_He replies, "Perhaps I do. Pourquoi? Are you planning on acting on it? A young thing like you, with an old man like myself?"_

England looked on, and Francis thought he saw madness in those eyes.

"_Maybe I have a thing for older men."_

Her arms strained and the fire leapt upward and engulfed her entire lower half, and she jerked and sobbed and cried his name again.

_She reaches and takes his hand in her own, smirking._

Francis freed an arm from their hold and stretched out his hand to her, screaming for her.

_She leans up and pulls him down simultaneously._

"You brought this upon yourself, France!" England screamed, though it was barely audible over the crackling of flames, and embers fell around them, ashes, black and gold littering the air.

"_Besides," she whispers. "You're not that old, and I'm not as young as you'd like to think I am."_

She burned.

_Francis smiles at the same time she does._

He ran forward after they released him, threw himself at the foot of her pyre, and gathered her ashes in his hands. That was all that was left. Ashes.

_She grins and pulls him fully downward…_

He dug as if to find something remaining, anything of hers, and he found only ashes.

…_and he leans in with the pull, arms going about her waist…_

And he looked back, and England watched him, and he shook and trembled and…

…_and she whispers "Je t'aime" against his lips…_

…there, in the ashes of Jeanne d'Arc…

…_and she kisses him._

…he broke at the feet of the great British Empire.

"_Ma belle mademoiselle Jeanne."_

_

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Alright, well, writing that has left me depressed and yet oddly excited. Next chapter: Breathing, in which Italy has the uncanny ability to make anything awkward.  
_


	15. Breathing

"You snore sometimes."

Of all the topics to be brought up in the middle of breakfast, Germany had not been expecting that one. Italy could tell from the way he looked at him, that 'so what' expression on his face that both begged him to shut up and yet asked him to continue, if only out of curiosity to the relevance of it.

This was his favorite part about their meals together. Just sitting together, the two of them, and talking about things that didn't have to do with anything in particular. Italy had to make sure he spoke first, of course, because if he let Germany take the reins of the conversation, it would likely head right back into war and violence, and the general things Italy didn't like to think about.

So today it was a nice talk about Germany's habit of snoring.

"…I snore?" Germany's expression was one of mild annoyance, but mostly one of confusion. "Well… why, does it bother you? If it bothers you, you don't have to come crawl in bed with me every night."

"Hmm?" Italy sat up straighter. "Um, no! No, it doesn't bother me. It was just something I noticed." He swung his feet a little – German chairs were so high, weren't they? Probably because Germans were so tall – and looked back at the other.

Germany took a bite of his breakfast sausage. "So why bring it up now?"

Italy thought about it for a moment. Really, it was because he had no filtering system, and he knew it. He sort of just spewed whatever came to mind. "I don't know," he replied honestly. "I think it's because I was thinking about how shallowly you're breathing right now, and it makes me nervous because you don't normally breathe that shallowly. Normally, your breathing is a lot more evened out and relaxed, oh, except when you have to chase me when I'm running away from England – and then I started thinking about the way you would breathe if you were scared too, but you don't get scared, right, Germany? And how you'd breathe if you were sad, or angry, or asleep, and then I remembered that you snore."

He smiled as he finished the train of thought, and Germany blinked at him as if trying to keep up – as smart as Germany was, Italy knew it was difficult to keep track of his conversation.

"Why are you keeping track of the way I breathe?" he asked.

Italy blinked. "Ah—I don't… I just notice things." He almost felt his face heat up a little but managed to keep it down. "Besides, I like the sound of your breathing. It's comforting. Like Austria's metronome."

Germany paused for a long moment, and watched him, fork halfway to his mouth. "…I… like the sound of your breathing too. Italy." His face had gone pink and Italy's heart was racing and they were looking at each other before Germany looked down to his plate and cleared his throat. "Just… eat your breakfast."

Smiling, Italy tucked into his own meal, and didn't complain once about the sausage or squishy potatoes. Instead, he kept quiet for the rest of the meal and listened to the quickened pace of Germany's embarrassed breathing.

* * *

**A/N:**_ A bit of fluff to contrast from the utter angst of the last chapter. I don't normally write fluff, so don't expect too much of it. Next: Breaking. Sometimes even nations shatter._


	16. Breaking

As Arthur stood there in the suffocating darkness and the heavy-blanket silence, he saw only the two of them in the mirror.

He was the only one to see this – it's not like he had anyone else over, he never did, alone in this cavernous house no matter how many nations he surrounded himself with – and yet he wanted the whole world to close their eyes and turn away, _don't look don't look don't look at my fantasy, at my dream, at my nightmare._

Alfred didn't stand beside him. If he was, the top of Arthur's head would have come up to Alfred's glasses, and those shoulders would be more broad than his own, yet the taller body would stand like it was so much smaller than everyone around him. Alfred wasn't here, but Arthur saw his reflection, sometimes.

He held him in his arms as well, but the warmth of bodily contact, the heat of an embrace, never penetrated past the desires of his heart.

He was alone in this house today, and alone in this world today, and he felt the cold of the bathroom floor seeping in through his socks.

Arthur turned on the light, but he was still alone in the mirror, watching it carefully in case something changed suddenly. Nobody watched him do this, and for that, he was grateful – nobody would understand, nobody would be able to comprehend why he still stood there, alone in his pajamas, London snow drifting past his window as he watched the mirror. Trembled, and watched the mirror.

He wasn't broken. Not like the other nations (Russia and his Baltics, Prussia, France, America… America… America). No, this was just something he did sometimes, watching his reflection in the fogged-up glass, his body shivering from the winter air because he was an idiot and had forgotten to turn on the heater again. Here in this room, in this house, he was alone. He wasn't broken, just lonely and cold, but in this mirror-world that he'd discovered…

In this fantasy realm he buried himself in, Alfred never left, and Arthur had watched him grow up proudly, and sometimes in these fantasies, Alfred never grew up at all, just stayed his little boy and held his hand and smiled that brilliant smile of his.

In this mirror, sometimes Arthur saw them together.

Tears were welling in his eyes but he wouldn't let them fall, even if nobody was there to catch him crying like some kind of heartbroken teenage girl. He scrubbed them away with his sleeve like a child and continued to pretend, watch the mirror and see Alfred beside him, feeling an almost-embrace around him, an almost-scent of French fries and burnt sugar and warmth.

Arthur saw and felt Alfred beside him, or at least he almost did, or at least he could pretend he did, and that was enough, sometimes.

And sometimes it wasn't.

He didn't want to almost feel him, didn't want to nearly touch him through the glass when he pressed his hands to it. Alfred was gone (gone, gone) and that was it, and he would never have him for his own again, only this… ghost of his presence that still lingered here in this godforsaken house.

He couldn't stand it anymore. Couldn't stand being so damn lonely, and losing so damn much, losing Alfred before he'd gotten the chance to say what he needed to (_I love you, I love you, you stupid wonderful boy, I love you_). And now Alfred had gone and…

Ruined himself… grown too large, too powerful, collapsed under his own height and…

He felt sick.

Suddenly all of that loneliness was replaced with anger, burning violent anger at Alfred's stupidity, and his fists clenched as he beat into the glass, pounded on it, felt it crack beneath his hands. He didn't stop for breath as he continued his assault, screaming and tearing the damn mirror from the wall, throwing it to the ground and watching it break.

When it was over, he sunk to the floor and sobbed.

The glass was broken and shards were caught in his fists, bloodied and bruised, and it cut into his legs as well now. He couldn't care less.

He looked down to the tile floor, seeing the glass reflecting only the broken pieces of himself, little broken shards that had once made a whole. Shattered, meaningless, just like everything else on this bloody planet.

The mirror was shattered. Just like Alfred had been.

And just like he was now.

Broken.

* * *

**A/N:**_ Well... yeah. I'm not quite sure what to say here. Next: Belief. America rediscovers the tragedies of war... over... and over... and over again. But he can't live without it._


	17. Belief

Sometimes it seemed like it was going to get better.

Sometimes he would be able to grip his gun tight tight tight like some kind of sick security blanket and be able to close his eyes and imagine a world without any kind of hatred or fear – sometimes. A nation founded on war and bloodshed, on rebellion and the stench of wet gunpowder in New England rain; and still he could try and tell himself he didn't fight for the sake of fighting, but for a sense of peace on this planet.

The rain wasn't pouring now, though. He couldn't say he missed it, but there was a sort of home found in the New York weather (in the London weather), in sitting beneath the pouring rain and looking up to the sky to let the drops hit his glasses and cling there (like gunpowder, like sweat, like blood, like tears). No, now he was beneath this expanse of sweltering Middle Eastern sky, the night dark like smudged ink, and his hands shook like anything as they clutched the butt of his gun hard enough to make his knuckles white.

Alfred waited. He waited and waited and trembled and breathed hard through his nose but made sure to keep silent, sitting uncomfortably in the sand, the uneven ground beneath making a flat spot on his ass that would ache later. He sat and waited for what seemed like hours (might be hours), not saying a word, not making a sound other than coughing up the hot sand stinging his throat.

The building behind him was like a castle – a small castle, but still a castle, and he imagined himself as a knight in shining armor, sword heavy at his side instead of this gun trembling in his hands, and the building was a high-walled castle with tall towers and an open portcullis to rival those of fairy tales. The castle in the back of his mind had a twisted look to it, as though a black filter had been placed over it (a dark and dangerous Disney villain castle), so unreal that Alfred believed he was dreaming for a moment—

Realized he was. Came back down to earth.

He wished he was dreaming. Wished he could open his eyes and this would be gone. There were tiny shards of broken glass embedded in his palms; the blood had stopped flowing for now, but he could still make out those light pink lines where the scarlet had trailed down his arms.

The air was heavy, hot and thick, causing goose bumps to rise with sweat on his exposed skin. Very dry outside the building's walls still, a sandstorm never calming, and his mind spun and ached and blinded him with images that weren't real. Hallucinating.

Instead, he tried thinking of what he was planning to do.

He'd promised himself he wouldn't think any more of it, but it always wriggled its way into his brain again just as he was going to act. He couldn't be sure of how many guards were within the walls, because there seemed to be no security blocking the entrance. Alfred wasn't positive that all of his Americans would come out alive, and it frightened him like nothing else to know that. This group of ragtag boys – boys, just boys, some as young as eighteen, all dirty-faced and hurting and missing their homes as well. They didn't know war like he did. They weren't founded on it like he was. They shouldn't have been here.

He imagined faceless soldiers carrying their bodies back to their parents, a mother sobbing on a father's shoulder, aunts and uncles remaining expressionless, a grandmother or an older sister realizing the true loss they've sustained. Teary-eyed, gaping, staring at the corpse of a boy.

It wasn't fair.

Alfred gripped his gun and looked to his men and told them, like he always told them, that all they had to do was believe they would come out okay, and it would all be fine.

"Have faith," he told them.

And then months later, at their funerals, he would remember their names and faces and ask himself what the point was in believing in anything anymore.

Faith only lead to disappointment.

* * *

**A/N**:_ I think America is just as tired of this war as I am. Next chapter: Balloon, in which England learns a new meaning to the word 'pirate,' and America touches the stars._


	18. Balloon

**A/N:** _Inspired by the song "Airship Pirates" by Abney Park._

* * *

England remembered when America invented the airplane. How excited he'd been, grinning like the fool he was, young and bright and babbling on about propellers and wings and flaps and wheels, lots of other things England had had no interest in, but America had been so happy, and so brilliant, that England couldn't even argue with him.

And he had to admit; it was a genius thing to invent. England would always love his seas better than anything the sky could offer, but the option of the wide expanse of cloud and air was nice to have.

(Or maybe he just thought it was genius because to see America, in that bomber jacket and goggles and that grin on his face, was enough to make his heart swell.)

America took to the sky like a duck to water, became a top-notch pilot, swore himself to his planes like England had to his ships… and that comparison had become all too accurate, hadn't it?

It wasn't World War One anymore. That had been so long ago, and really a silly thing to fight over, when he compared it to this. The year was 2092, and the airplane had been modified beyond recognition. In fact, the style seemed to be reverting back to a zeppelin sort of shape, a swelling kind of balloon that went high high up in the sky until it could touch outer space, lined around the outsides with some kind of metal to keep it from deflating or popping too easily.

World War One had been about dog fights and defending Queen and Country, flying in those godforsaken planes because he'd had to. Ships had had no place in the sky in World War One, and piracy? It had already died out by then.

So why was it coming back now?

And why was he so hesitant to participate again?

England remembered his wide captain's hat and weather-resistant boots. Remembered the loot jangling in the bags and bags of it he gathered up, or in large chests brimming with the treasure of other nations (oh, India my darling, how good you are to me), and his earring and the creaking of the deck under his feet and all the good smells of the ocean around him.

This was different from that, yet so very similar as well, as he tried to keep his footing steady on the swaying deck – could it be called a deck? The room was rounded with the shape of the ship, and the air around him smelled like coals and steel, industrial sorts of smells, and the crew was grimy and filth-encrusted. Sweat lingered in the air amidst the smell of burning and metal – men who hadn't bathed or even seen shore in months, had to make due with the water supplies gained from their stops at surrounding planets—

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Planets. Yes, the United States of America was trying his hand at Imperialism once again – not with Panama and the Philippines, no, but with the planets of other galaxies, space travel making his ego inflate like this godforsaken ship, creating a crazed glint in his eye the likes of which England had never seen.

No, wait. He had seen it before. In himself, looking in the mirror on his own ship in the mornings, way back to his days as Captain Arthur Kirkland, captain of the _Victoria_.

America had become a _pirate_.

England walked along the steel deck of this space-zeppelin, the _Patriot_, his weight causing the metal beneath him to creak, and he had to squint in the dim light of the fuel room. Lithuania, sweat dripping in pale streaks down a blackened face, shoveled hard lumps of coal dilithium—

(He remembered America calling them that. "Dilithium crystals," a ridiculous Roddenberry name, but America had only crossed his arms. "Well, so we had to actually invent it first," he'd sighed, still young, still bright with hope, "but they work like magic. And I can call it whatever the hell I want. I invented it, after all.")

--into the furnace, and he watched them burn, watched that dark fiery hole eat it and fuel the thing, felt a sense of urgency in getting out of this place.

"Arthur!"

England turned around, feeling dread and excitement wash through him all at once, and sure enough, America was walking toward him, his heavy-soled and heavily buckled boots clanging hard on the floor. His gloves were brown and thick for working machines, bandana tight around his head, glasses smudged with specks of dirt. He wore a long coat (like England's had been), earrings (like England had worn), and there was a long Efficiency Rifle by his side (like the blade England had been so very fond of).

"Yes?"

"Everything's okay down here?" England nodded at America's question, at which America furrowed his brow. "Then… what are you doing? I thought you would be upstairs, fixing the capacitor."

"I was just going to see if Toris was okay. And I told you, I don't know _how_ to fix-"

"Weird, sounds like you're talking back to your superior." The playful tone from America's voice had gone, replaced with something… colder. England watched him and straightened his back and gave him a proper _American_ salute.

"Of course not… Captain Jones."

America nodded to him, and a cold little power-hungry smile set upon his face.

"Good," he said. "I expect only the best from my crew."

He put a hand on England's shoulder. "_Especially from my states_."

Sometimes England wished, with all his might, that the bloody airplane had never been invented.

* * *

**A/N:** _So this was a bit cracked-out, but the idea of America becoming Imperialist had been eating at my head all day, and listening to that song, this was all I could think of. So yes. Hope you enjoyed it. Next chapter: Balcony, in which Shakespeare makes this romance thing seem so much easier than it is._


	19. Balcony

So maybe it had been a while since England had done anything considered "romantic" by society. Honestly, he didn't think anything of it; at least not until his fey friends had him convinced that if he didn't act on his lovers' instinct, then Francis might get bored and leave him.

A ridiculous thought, but still. Better safe than sorry.

So that was why he was here, in the middle of the night, looking up to Francis's window from the freshly-watered garden of Francis's house, trying to make amends for their argument the day before. He didn't even remember what the argument was about – no doubt another one of Francis's attempts to get him land-locked, keep him from going out to sea again and "leaving him alone" – but he knew he had to apologize for whatever it was Francis thought he did wrong. Like he said, better safe than sorry.

"Francis!" he hissed up at the window. Useless. The thing was shut and the curtains drawn, and he probably thought he'd left for his ship already. Arthur sighed a bit in irritation and tried again. "Francis!"

Still nothing. Hmm. All right then.

He leant down and picked up a small stone, looked back up to the window, aimed just right, and threw it up. The little pebble bounced harmlessly from the glass. "Francis!"

Most would question at this point why Arthur didn't just go to the front door – he had a key to the house, he could easily get inside and go wake the Frenchman with no trouble – and it is to this inquiry that Arthur would quote his lover in saying that people, men in particular, do crazy things when they are in love. And desperate times called for desperate measures, and if that meant standing out here throwing rocks up at the balcony window to get Francis to not leave him, so be it.

When the other still didn't acknowledge he was there, he tried again, with a pebble a bit larger this time. Again, it bounced from the glass, and he waited as he saw the flicker of light inside. This time, Francis did emerge from his bedroom, looking sleepy and annoyed and… oh, maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

"What do you want, Angleterre? I am trying to sleep!" Francis was dressed in his nightgown – really, such a woman, when it came down to it – and his hair was messy around his face, eyes half-lidded and tired. Arthur felt silly, being fully-dressed still (he'd gotten no sleep whatsoever that night, having worried about the fabric of their relationship coming apart – well, maybe he was a bit of a woman too).

"I came to see you."

Francis blinked at him. "Monsieur Kirkland, it is two o'clock on this morning… why couldn't you wait until tomorrow? And… I thought you would have left for your seas by now."

Ah, so Arthur was right. Paranoia came in handy sometimes, didn't it?

"Well…" Arthur searched for something to say. His fey had been the ones to tell him to come make it right, and a fat lot of good they had done him here, and he remembered Shakespeare making this seem more romantic than it probably was, Romeo standing down below his lady's balcony, monologuing his love for Juliet, while Juliet stood there in her night-things and dreamt of his love in return.

Of course, the thought of Francis Bonnefoy as Juliet was not only amusingly fitting, but also a bit unnerving, because he was standing there now looking like he wasn't dreaming of kissing Arthur so much as braining him for disrupting his sleep.

"Arthur," Francis sighed, tugging his hair back from his eyes so he could see. "It is early. I don't know what you think you are doing here, but all you are managing is to make me upset with you."

Oh. Oh dear, well, that couldn't be good.

"I…" Arthur's voice lowered in embarrassment at what he was about to say. "Well, you know, I thought… I thought it would be romantic."

He had a right to be embarrassed, because then Francis was blinking and looking confused before—ah, yes, so like his Trio, he was laughing at him, covering his mouth to keep from waking nonexistent neighbors.

"Rom… romantic, Angleterre?" Francis calmed down and just stood there smirking. "Arthur, je t'aime, but you are anything but Shakespeare."

Francis wasn't stupid. Arthur should've remembered this.

"Well…" He couldn't think of what to say. "I just—"

"Arthur." Francis cut him off, smiling more than smirking now, and shook his head. "You don't have to be Monsieur Shakespeare to impress me, you know." He laughed a bit. "I think you are romantic enough just the way you are."

Arthur blinked up at him and that smile made his face heat up. He cleared his throat. "You… you do?"

"Oui." Francis nodded and stifled a yawn. "Tomorrow… we will talk more about it, non? But tonight, I think it is best to get some sleep. Come inside instead of just standing there, you must be cold."

A few minutes later, curling close to Francis in the warmth of Paris, Arthur realized that really, Shakespeare had known bollocks about romance.

* * *

**A/N:** _England trying to be romantic makes me laugh... Next chapter: Bane, in which France helps America to finally grow up._


	20. Bane

France didn't quite know what he was doing here, if he was truthful. Mostly it was just to fight Arthur – any excuse to fight Arthur, he would take it – and to hurt Arthur, to break Arthur, to make him sorry for all he'd taken from the French Empire.

But in reality… he wasn't sure why he'd really agreed to help this little brat revolt.

The colony couldn't have been more than eleven, at the very most, and yet he was tall as a full-grown nation. The last time France had seen America was when England had brought him to visit his brother, and that was a while ago, yes, but not that long; America had had to look up to see him properly, the top of that blond head barely up to the bottom of France's chest, and he'd known his place then too, hadn't tried to argue for rights that didn't exist.

Now…

Well, now America was as tall as himself, perhaps even a bit taller, and he'd broadened from that boyish stature as well, shoulders nice and square and attractive and—

Eleven. The boy was ten or eleven in human terms, and France would not get carried away.

America was cleaning out his gun – a shoddy weapon, they all had shoddy weapons, but still an efficient one – when France walked over to him. The long blue coat looked good on the boy, he would admit, and America looked up at him and asked, "What?"

"Why are you fighting this war with Angleterre?" He couldn't keep himself from asking, but America didn't seem to care. He just went back to cleaning his weapon, holding it like security. Hadn't Arthur been the one to teach him to fire it?

"I'm going to show him that I'm big now. I'm just as big as he is, and he still treats me like I'm a little kid." _That's because you are a little kid, _France thought, but didn't say anything aloud. "He taxes me until I'm bankrupt. Takes advantage of me. He's nothing but a greedy, stuck-up, snobby Empire, and I am tired of being British. It's about time I was really American. I want… I want to be able to be big too."

France sat beside him on the log he'd been sitting on, and he took the gun from him before the boy could shoot his face off, and cleaned it for him. "He only had your best interests at heart, you know. Taxes… it is something Empires must do. I am sure I have left him in enough debt to last a few dozen lifetimes, with my… my Napoleon." The name hurt to say, even now. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

America was quiet for a long time. He took the gun back when France finished, held it to his chest like a poppet, looked at the muddy ground. "He missed it, France." His voice was quiet enough to be almost inaudible. "I grew up, and… he wasn't there. He left me when I was small, and I was a grown-up when he came back, and he just got upset with me for growing too fast. All the growing pains, and… aches, and my voice changing, I didn't know what was happening, because he wasn't there to tell me."

There was a pause, and France watched him as he continued, "And then the taxes. He told me that if I'm so big, I should have enough money to pay all of them off. But… he taxed the tea, France! The tea! I can't pay all that, and my people want… the colonists, the Separatists and Puritans, they want…" He quieted again. "They want independence. And so do I. I'm tired of being told what to do like I'm small."

After a long moment, France nodded. "D'accord. If you want independence, I will help you get it." He stood again. "You… are a wonder, America. It is too bad I had not colonized you when I had the opportunity." A look of distaste crossed America's face, but France just leaned down and placed a kiss right on his mouth, a quick one, and pulled away again, leaving him there.

Independence. Right.

The boy was in over his head, but France couldn't help but feel that there was going to be quite a fight ahead of them.

* * *

A/N: Up next - Quiet, in which Russia thinks over how very empty his house has become.


	21. Quiet

He was used to sound. Not particularly loud noise, no, but… something. Some kind of sign that he wasn't alone here, alone in this wide and cave-like house, just a small sign that he didn't have to sit here by himself.

He was used to hearing hushed whispers of his Baltics. Perhaps the sound of Latvia's chattering teeth, of Estonia's knees knocking together, of… of Toris, the sound of Toris cleaning or cooking or telling the other two to hush, keep quiet, Russia's sleeping.

Toris never called him Ivan. Not once.

He missed them.

Ivan missed them because his ears strained to catch even a fragment of noise – perhaps of Ukraine's apologetic sobbing or Belarus sharpening that knife of hers, sisters, family, someone to keep him close and something like sane.

Ivan missed them because they weren't here anymore.

His Soviet Union was no more, and as he sat here in this huge and empty house, he cursed America's name and wanted to cry. His sisters, his toys, his lovely soft Baltics, they were gone, gone, gone! All around him there wasn't any sound at all, no sobbing…

No shaking…

No chattering teeth or knives or cooking or cleaning or a timid little Lithuanian accent whimpering his name as he straddled his lap.

No breaking noises that he would have to beat somebody for later.

Not even echoes of "Ivan, aru" echoing through the house.

No visitors, no sisters, no Baltics.

There was just Russia. No Soviets. Just Russia.

Just Russia, and his empty, sad, quiet winter home.

* * *

**A/N:** _Oh em gee, Russia ficlet. Weird. Don't know where this came from. Up next: Quirks, in which Poland counts everything he loves about his Liet._


	22. Quirks

Feliks had always been curious as to why Liet had never asked him about his peculiar habit of cross-dressing.

He supposed that after spending such a long, miserable time with Russia – who would beat the disobedience out of Toris at any kind of questioning – Liet must be afraid to ask, wanting to stay on Feliks's good side. As if he had a bad side when it came to Liet. Liet had been the one to teach him patience, after all, even in the moments when they thought they'd kill one another.

Feliks would have told the truth, in any case. That he wore skirts because he wanted to look good for Liet, because they were comfortable on him, and stylish, and seeing Liet's green eyes trail up and down his exposed legs in obvious temptation was better than going to the movies any day. He liked seeing Toris flushed and awkward, stammering and speechless at the increasingly inappropriate outfits that Feliks donned.

He would have told him that it was just a quirk of his.

And he already knew that Liet would have laughed and said yes, well, he doesn't have any quirks, himself. And what a lie that would have been.

Feliks knew Liet's quirks better than anyone, didn't he? Even if he never pointed them out, never asked about them or said anything. He knew that speaking up would make Liet uncomfortable, and it wasn't that sort of uncomfortable that Feliks liked to force upon his closest friend.

No. He knew that Liet had his own little oddities about him, even if they were much more subtle than something like Feliks's cross-dressing.

Toris had this little stutter when he was nervous. He'd had it since they were very small, long before Russia had come into their mutual lives. Toris's face would go red from the neck up, and he would stammer quietly and shuffle his feet – pretty much the cutest thing Feliks had ever seen.

He also had a habit of playing with his hair. Shoving the brunette tangles behind his ears, or pulling it back into a ponytail with his hand before letting it go again, or shaking his head to make it swing about his face. When they were small, his hair had been shorter, and he supposed Toris wasn't used to having to take care of it while it was like this.

Well. He looked better with longer hair, anyway.

Sometimes Toris had a laugh, too. It was really just a chuckle – one, two, three, four – and then one of those hair-tucks. This was him being flirtatious. He might not think he had a flirtatious side, but Feliks knew better. That lowering of eyelashes, shifting closer, voice speaking in soft low tones. Flirting with him. It was enough to make his heart beat somewhere in the vicinity of his throat and skip beats dangerously.

When Toris ate, he fiddled with his silverware while he chewed.

When Toris slept, his breath caught on the inhale and the exhale came out slow.

When Toris dreamt, he talked under his breath about Russia's hands and Russia's eyes and Russia, Russia, Russia.

When Toris laughed, tears rolled down his face.

When Toris cried, he choked.

He didn't know how Toris kissed, but he liked to think that that was quirky too – and that it would taste like sunshine and rye fields instead of like tears and snow.

Feliks had his quirks. Maybe loving Toris was one of them.

* * *

**A/N:** _I love PolLiet; they're really one of my favored pairings, and it's so hard to find any good fic for them. Up next: Question. Maybe France spoils Canada a little too much._


	23. Question

It was late, probably later than the boy should have stayed up, but he had an uncanny ability to wheedle almost anything about of his Empire. France was a spoiler of children – he loved Mathieu's smile more than anything in the world, and would even break his own personal house rules to get it.

"You need your sleep," France told him, stroking his hair and he brought him into his room, lay him down on his little bed and began tucking him in. "You have gotten to stay up too late already. Sleep in tomorrow, oui?"

"Oui, Papa," Matthew agreed, and held on a little longer before he let France go. The boy looked worried for some reason, and France gave a questioning sound. "Mathieu? What is it?"

Mathieu blinked his wide blue-violet eyes up at him, gathering the sheets in his fists. "Read me a story?"

They read the colony's favorite from his small book, the one about the princess who would marry the man to bring her the most beautiful dress, and the peasant boy who had spun one of his own hair – and Mathieu smiled sadly throughout the whole story, but didn't close his eyes once, just watched his Papa read. It made France a bit nervous sometimes, how closely Mathieu attached himself.

"Now sleep." France tucked him back in, kissing his forehead. "You—"

"Sing me a song, Papa?"

France sang to him softly, "Le Petite Prince," and grew exhausted.

"S'il vous plait, Mathieu, go to sleep," France pleaded, getting up and stroking the boy's hair, reaching for the light.

"Papa?"

France was about to turn around and tell him no to whatever bedtime ritual he would ask for, but the look on Mathieu's face shut him down. "…oui, Canada?"

The colony took a moment, fisted his hands in the sheets, looked at him with wide eyes. "…Je t'aime, Papa." His eyes were watery and tearful. "You won't ever leave me, will you?"

The question took him by surprise. "…non… Non, mon fil, of course not." He almost panicked even at the thought of losing his precious boy. And the look on Mathieu's face was one of relief, of desperate relief, and he smiled as France dimmed down his lamp. "Bon… bon soir, Mathieu."

"Bon soir, Papa."

France shut the door behind him, and tried not to wonder what had gotten the idea in the boy's head in the first place that France would ever, ever leave him. How could he possibly leave, when Mathieu was all that France had anymore?

* * *

**A/N:** _Crappy attempt at writing parental!France. Next chapter is better, I promise. Up next: Quarrel, in which Mexico ponders why America is acting so strangely._


	24. Quarrel

His heart raced loud and painful in his ears, and he wanted to knock as he stood outside America's door, hand held up and suspended there. He couldn't do it. America didn't want to think about it, right? No, of course not. Who would want to think about it?

But there was some small sense of hope in Mexico's stupid, foolish heart, and that alone let him knock.

He remembered walking into America's bedroom for the very first time, when they were teenagers, during the Mexican-American war. He'd come in here to trash it. He didn't know why, just that his sister North Mexico had told him to. The house had been smaller then, hadn't it? And very cowboy-oriented, he remembered that. Never mind that without Mexico, cowboys might never have existed.

Now the house wasn't a threat. It was more like a sense of home.

Funny, how eager and excited and angry he had been then, and how reluctant and terrified he was now. Shaking, a little, even. He didn't have to do this to himself, to America, changing the both of them. But he was better than to turn and leave it hanging there between them like the elephant in the room.

America's familiar voice told him to come in. Mexico let himself turn the knob, open the door, and look into the bedroom, look into the face of his best friend.

(His only friend.)

America looked very young as he sat on his floor and shuffled cards. He didn't even meet Mexico's eyes.

It took a long minute for Mexico to remember how to speak, and then another moment to remember how to speak English. He didn't want to fuck this up more than he already had. "Ah… Senor America…"

"If this is about last night," America spoke up softly, "I don't think we really need to talk about it. And I told you, you can… you can call me Alfred." He blinked down at those cards, did the little fold-shuffle thing, the shuffling move Mexico had taught him himself.

(He'd certainly called him Alfred last night. First-name basis.)

Mexico felt guilt flow over him, and his body felt heavy, weighted down with the knowledge that America wasn't looking at him still.

"I… shouldn't have done what I did, Sen—Alfred." Mexico bit his lip, cursed himself softly. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Alfred didn't look up.

"I know."

Alfred's voice was laden with guilt of his own, sadness, and Mexico hated himself for it.

Mexico came closer to maybe embrace him – a stupid thing, because America just scooted back a little. "I should've known it would get out of hand like hand, Alfred, _lo siento_…"

"I thought we had the unspoken agreement not to talk about it," Alfred half-laughed, but the tremble in his voice gave him away. Mexico watched him closely (like he always did). "If… England knew, if your sister knew what we did…"

"America…" Mexico swallowed down a painful breaking in his own voice. He didn't know how to handle what he was going to hear, what he was sure America would say. "Alfred… I really… _te amo… te amo_, Alfred, I love you. You know that… don't you? That I love you?"

Alfred's face depicted everything Mexico feared, above all this overwhelming sadness and guilt and he was shaking and looking ready to cry. "…yeah."

"But… you don't love me back… do you?" Mexico asked him, holding in all of the anger and the disappointment that burned his chest. Part of him hoped, foolishly, crossed his fingers and pleaded silently…

But Alfred bit down hard on his lip, looked up at Mexico very quickly before back down to his cards. "…no."

It crashed through him, shot him through with numbness and cold and heartbreak and he didn't want to have to hear it, but he had to, had to hear it again.

"I'm… not in love with you, Pablo."

And that was it.

"…I finished the weeds," Mexico barely managed to choke out, and he turned and left, a violent sadness tearing through him, making him shake and stumble out of the house and choke on his own disappointment.

He couldn't be England for America.

But he would've been willing to try.

* * *

**A/N:** _Next chapter is like a second half to this one. Up next: Quitting, in which America brings this charade to an end._


	25. Quitting

It didn't really hurt to tell him it had to end. This little game of 'tequila night' they had, him and Mexico, it was eating away at Alfred's dreams and causing a level of anxiety he wasn't used to. He couldn't take England's name-calling anymore or the look of disappointment in those green, green eyes. England didn't like Mexico, and if it would make him happy to let Mexico go, then… Alfred had to do it.

So it didn't really hurt to tell him that their games had to come to a stop. In fact, it barely numbed him to watch Pablo Rodriguez's slow and almost graceful understand of what was developing before him. Pablo wasn't stupid, even for being Spain's son; he knew from the minute Alfred opened his mouth why they were doing this, and Alfred knew it as well.

The only thing that hurt was Pablo's understanding of the situation, the calm and cautious realization; Alfred guessed he wanted him to cry, at least know that he hurt him somehow, see the pain across the sun-burnt face. But there was nothing.

In fact, Pablo didn't show any sign of even being remotely affected by what Alfred said.

"I can't do this anymore," Alfred had told him, "because I'm in love with Arthur, and it's wrong to use you that way."

The relationship – if it could be called that – between them, it wasn't a bad one, really. Alfred was too easily lost in his love for one Arthur Kirkland; his dreams were plagued by green eyes and messy hair and bushy eyebrows, not by a straw sombrero and gardener's gloves. Whenever Alfred would grow desperate for Arthur, Pablo was there with his arms open, offering comfort and sanctuary disguised in pretense.

No, the relationship wasn't bad. Just complicated. It had had dark places ahead of it, and Alfred supposed he was doing them both a favor by ending it when he did. But it felt so wrong to be here now, watching Pablo's expression go from understanding to pity to something unrecognizable, pretending to still be his friend… when he knew he hurt him, knew that he deserved to be hated and screamed at and cursed out.

Nothing. Pablo said nothing. Didn't call him sick for falling for the nation who had once been his Empire and older brother – Alfred shuddered to think of what Arthur would say if he ever found out – and didn't push him away.

"I would like to still be your friend, Senor America," he said instead, and brought him forward into… into a hug.

And Alfred broke.

Arthur would never love him, and Alfred knew that. But he couldn't use Mexico to soothe his own desires for the unattainable nation. He wasn't good enough for Arthur, wasn't strong enough or… romantic enough, smart enough. Arthur needed something more than a lost little boy with a crush.

He had France, anyway, and though Alfred felt lost and cold and broken down into pieces, he could still force that smile onto his face when Arthur told him how happy he was with France.

It wasn't fair.

And he had hurt Pablo, and hurt himself, but Arthur was so blindingly happy…

And Alfred gave up.

_I quit._

_I could ache for your touch, kill for your love, but I cannot watch you be happy with somebody who will only hurt you in the end._

_I love you, Arthur._

_I quit._

Pablo held him. Alfred cried.

* * *

**A/N:** _I love this pairing way too much, even if it's only in my imagination. Up next: Jump, in which America sees a very infamous play with a very famous president._


	26. Jump

_Theatrophobia - an irrational fear of the theater._

* * *

By the end of the war, Alfred was broken and bleeding and nearly torn clean in two, with a scar tracing down the middle of his back where the Confederates had tried to split him. General Lee, General Grant, President Lincoln, they all shouted at him and pleaded things from him, all wanted different things and he couldn't please them all. In the end, he had brought the battles upon himself, even if he had been the one to end them as well.

Civil War. Ridiculous, when he thought about it – all over the worth of a human being.

(The Africans are people too.)

But he didn't have to worry about that anymore. It was over, finally, all over, and though his hands shook beyond belief still, and his blood still ran thin and cold in his veins in near-death, he had been the one to stand beside the President and hear him speak of America like he was something worth saving.

Maybe that's why he was here now, instead of at home and in bed resting up, healing. Lincoln had been the one to smile at him with that worn-and-weathered face of his and reach out and stroke his hair back like a father's touch (a father's touch so long forgotten and so long missed) and ask him what he wanted.

Lincoln wanted to know what he wanted. Alfred. Not America – no, right now, America wanted nothing but his people to be happy, cared for, satisfied with something in their grimy little lives – but Alfred, the boy who was bedridden with illness and anemia, trying to recover from the trauma of nearly being torn in twain.

"Right now, all I want is your company, Mr. President."

Lincoln's smile had been enough reassurance that he'd get what he wanted. The President sat up with him all night in the oval office, and when he asked what he wanted to do in the morning, Alfred told him he wanted to see a play.

"Our American Cousin is playing," he said. "It's a comedy, I think, and we could all use some laughs right now, right, sir?"

(He still spoke with a bit of a southern drawl. Sounded like a Confederate sometimes.)

"You're spilling your peanuts, America." Lincoln's voice brought him back to Earth, and he blinked and gave a questioning look to his boss. "Peanuts," Lincoln said again. "You're spilling them."

Sure enough, there were shells all over the ground from where he'd accidentally stepped on them. Alfred frowned a little and reached down to pick them up.

"I've never been to a theater like this before," Alfred spoke up as he kept his head ducked. "The last place I went to, they charged me just to walk through the door, instead of pricing me for the show. Peculiar, isn't it? I thought about going right up to them and going, 'Hey, mister, don't you know who I am?' But I don't think I'm allowed to do that, anyway. Fun to think about, though."

"I doubt he'd have believed you." The President adjusted his hat and looked to him again. "Oh, look at you, now you've made another mess altogether… come, let me look at you." He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and began wiping at the corners of Alfred's mouth, and Alfred laughed and pressed him away, shaking his head.

"Hey, hey! What are you, my mother? I can do it myself, sir, really." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve; Lincoln looked at him distastefully, but said nothing. Alfred wondered if he was even allowed to say anything.

"Sometimes I get to thinking that if you Nations did have mothers, you would be a lot better off."

Alfred shrugged, took another peanut from the bag, and cracked the shell of it, sending more spilling to the floor. "Well, it's not like we don't get parents, or something like it. I mean, England was kind of like a dad to me, sort of, or like an older brother who harped on me on the time, when I was little…" He cut off at a bit of a laugh from his President. "What?"

"Oh, just that… the way you two act, you and England, it's not very familial, is it?" Lincoln's smile was kind but held some kind of subtext as well. "I have sons. I know how family behaves. You and England aren't family, not with the way you banter."

He wasn't sure what to think of that, and so sunk low in his chair. "Let's not talk about England. He's… Well, let's not talk about him." Alfred popped a few shelled peanuts into his mouth and heard the skittering as the shells landed on the floor again. "Besides, the show's about to start. I've heard it's really funny."

Lincoln sat back in his own seat while still appearing Presidential, and talked to his wife for a while, smiling. Alfred heard her say something about the behavior of children but decided to ignore it – he'd proven himself enough in this war as an adult, he didn't need anyone telling him he was just a boy anymore.

Besides, the President was the only one who was allowed to call him "boy" anymore.

The lights began to dim and Alfred sat straight in excitement, holding his bag of peanuts and grinning like anything. Live theater! Oh, there really wasn't a treat like this, not in the United States of America – yes, the United States, one again, singular, not the threat of being split or dissolved or anything like it. All he had to worry about now was if the show was as good as everyone said it was, and he smiled and looked over to Lincoln to thank him, and—

"Mr. President!"

The call came from somewhere to the left before the resounding 'BANG' split the air. Startled, Alfred jumped, and his bag of peanuts fell to the ground, the shells skittering along, and he felt wetness on his face all of a sudden, and reached up to touch it, and his fingertips came back… red.

No.

"Mis… Mister Pres…" Alfred couldn't find his voice anymore, and couldn't hear himself for the resounding ringing in his ears, and his eyes were wide and panicked and Lincoln had fallen forward in his seat and was slumped against the seat before him, and Mrs. Lincoln was screaming, and there was a man trying to reach for him, and behind him…

Behind him…

A man with a mustache held a small gun, aimed where the back of the President's head had been not moments before, a manic look on his face, and Alfred had seen him somewhere before. An actor, perhaps? But what kind of actor would…? And the man went down on the stage, shouting "sic semper tyrannis" and an aching sort of pain was hitting Alfred now, not the sharp kind brought upon by war, but…

"Mr. President…" Alfred went and reached and he was shaking and numb and put a hand on the shoulder of his boss, of his friend, of… the closest thing he had to a father, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes and he began shaking him harder. "President Lincoln… Mr. President, get up…! We have to get you to a hospital, we have to-!"

His voice broke and he began to sob and it wasn't fair, no, who would do this, who would do this to their own leader, it wasn't right and wasn't fair, and things had just started to get nice again.

He fell to his knees and felt the shells of peanuts beneath him, held himself, cried until he couldn't anymore, and until he couldn't see for the tears.

_He hadn't stepped foot in a theater - Ford or otherwise - since._

_

* * *

_**A/N: **_I'm really happy with the way this one came out. My America has a severe fear of the theater for this very reason, and I wanted to be able to get that across. Next: Jester, in which Germany is fairly certain that playing the fool is sometimes the right thing to do._


	27. Jester

Ludwig stumbles into his own home like a stranger tonight. His boots are heavy, black and thick, and they make echoing footsteps on the hardwood floor.

The house is near to empty, but he knows the presence here. It always awaits him when he comes back from battle (blood-drenched, war-torn), and greets him with smiles and laughter and pasta and other silly things he hasn't the time for. But tonight… well, tonight he hears nothing.

It would worry him, were he in the state of mind he was in a few years ago. Tonight he simply feels his head ache and fumbles in the kitchen for pain medication, tearing open cabinets while his head pounds to the time of his heart—

(_Austria's metronome. Tick-tick-tick-tick… tick-tick-tick-tick… waking from sleep and hearing experimental piano from downstairs. "Don't be shy, Ludwig. Come and listen."_)

He takes his arm and sweeps it across the counter and sends the bottles and bottles of pills scattering to the floor. Aspirin, Tylenol, ibuprofen…

Why does it hurt so damn much?

_Scheiss. _

Hands stammering, Ludwig scrabbles for one of those bottles, on his knees, breath coming shakily, and he works the childproof cap hard enough to break it. The pills are bitter in his mouth without any water and he swallows them dry.

Hurts. Hurts worse than anything he's ever felt before, ripping through him like a storm, causing his shaking hands to find stability by fisting in his normally neat hair. He lays there and trembles and takes in gasping breaths and tries to remember when he was small, when Prussia would hold him tight to soothe the headaches.

All the damn headaches.

(_"One day you'll grow up nice and strong, and the headaches won't bother you anymore." Then why are they still here? Fresh, new, painful, a hundred times worse?_)

"G…Germany?"

The voice is soft and sounds almost timid, though he's far more used to hearing it in sing-song, babbling on and on about nothing in particular. Tonight, Feliciano is just as quiet as the fearful Poles in his prisons. The fearful Jews. The deaf, the sick, the homosexual. Anyone who isn't "perfect." But who decides? Who chooses what it means to be perfect?

These headaches. The result of that search for perfection.

"Fel… ahh-" He can't finish, brings his hands up to press against his temples and push as hard as he can as if hoping to crush his own skull. Maybe he is.

His eyes are squeezed shut, but he can hear Feliciano's surprise. "Ger… Ludwig? Ludwig, what's wrong?"

"Go away, Feliciano, don't come- Just go away, go to bed!" Ludwig's voice comes strangled and thin, and Feliciano's not leaving, just standing there and staring, and no, he can't see him like this… can't see him this weak, this broken-down, struggling just to stand up.

("_Holy Rom_-")

"Ludwig…" Feliciano's not leaving. Instead he comes forward and kneels a bit by his side and looks frightened, oh, frightened, brown eyes wide and hands reaching out to take his shoulders.

(_Hands too small to hold on correctly. Feliciano…? Laughing. "You'll grow up so tall, Holy R_—")

"Ludwig, please tell me what's—"

"Just go- Just go to bed, Italy, it's okay, go to bed…"

"Ludwig…" And Feliciano's arms are going around him, holding him in, stronger than he would like Ludwig to think. Ludwig is still shaking but the pain dissipates, and he swallows, and goes to push him away – but his hands turn traitor and pull him closer instead. "It's okay, Ludwig. I'm here, it… it's okay."

So backwards. It should be the other way around, but Ludwig is weakened as the end of this war nears (as America enters the war fully armed and fully righteous), and he can't help but grab onto Feliciano's shirt and pull and bury his face in him like some kind of child.

("_You can't fight this war, Ludwig." Austria's voice. "You're just a child. You're too small. France will tear you apart_.")

Feliciano says nothing, for once. He strokes his hair like someone much taller once had, and presses a kiss to his forehead, to his nose, to his lips… and they are silent together.

In the morning, Feliciano is back to being the Fool. He smiles and laughs and talks about pasta, and any memory of the headaches and of the kiss is tucked away and forgotten.

Ludwig knows Feliciano isn't stupid. But maybe sometimes just sitting back, being the Fool, is the smart thing to do.

Sometimes… forgetting is the right thing to do.

* * *

**A/N:** _I love the idea of Italy taking care of Germany during the emotionally bad times. Germany may do the physical protection, but Italy protects Germany's mental state. Up next: Jousting. Living with Russia had been a twisted game of cat-and-mouse; living with America, it's a game of tug-of-war._


	28. Jousting

It had really been too long since Toris had felt anything like this – a place of comfort and security, a warm bed and a hot meal every day. Twice a day. Three times a day, sometimes.

It had been a long time since Toris had felt like he wasn't so much fighting for his life, but perhaps simply sparring, practice for when he was ready for something real.

With Russia, he always found himself in cages, in cellars, locked away and out of sigh until Russia wanted him (wanted, not needed, he would never be needed there). It was a kind of cat-and-mouse, and he found that comparison all too accurate as he imagined himself with small Mickey Mouse ears and Russia as the cat, large and frightening and intimidating and hungry, so hungry.

With Russia, he had been a game. How long could he last? How long could Toris take the pain without breaking down? Steady pressure pushing down on his chest, increasing by the second, other hand firmly over his mouth to keep him from screaming, and his legs splayed on either side of the larger nation's hips, and as he felt his ribs crack and give way to weight, he couldn't even summon the energy to cry.

With Russia, he had been a toy, something to play with when he was bored or lonely (though Toris couldn't see how Russia ever got lonely – he was surrounded by so many, by his sisters, by Baltics, by China, who would love him unconditionally and irrevocably).

And then, like a miracle, he had been saved, hadn't he? Pulled from Russia's home like a damsel in distress, and a sort of American Hero scooping him up and flying him back to the safety and warmth of New York City. He'd never felt so secure as he had in America's home – the locks on the door were to keep others out, not to keep himself in, and the drawn curtains were to keep everyone else from peeking in instead of to prevent him from seeing the outside world.

The sound of early Sunday traffic jams had become a comfort in place of the cold and chilling silence of Russia's cellar. Toris would wake to the sounds of coffee being poured for him in the mornings he slept in – sleeping in, oh Dievas, what Heaven could this be, surely too good to be true – or the sounds of America rifling through his garage in search of something, or America's cursing as he stubbed a toe, or America laughing along to a BBC special that he wouldn't tell England he'd been watching, not ever.

America was warm and inviting. The house smelled like cheap Starbucks coffee and freshly-grilled hamburgers, like French fries ("freedom fries") and dusty storage rooms that Toris wasn't allowed inside.

And America was kind to him. Did things for him. Toris thought it was because America didn't like an empty home, and was trying to win his affection to get him to stay… but Toris didn't like to think that America would be so selfish, so he pretended that it was out of friendship instead.

With America, this wasn't a game of cat-and-mouse, but of tug-of-war. Toris would get the silly thought in his head that he might be happy elsewhere, and America tugged him right back in and showed him that he couldn't be this safe anywhere else. This warm, this invited, this welcomed. America showered him in love and affection and smothered him with presents and kindness. (It sometimes became difficult to breathe, but he told himself it was probably just the dust.)

With America, he wasn't a toy, but a crutch – a useful object to keep America from collapsing over his unrequited love for England. Toris knew this. Part of him didn't care.

Because when America kissed him, he could taste salt and desperation, feigned affection and 'I'm not a child anymore; here, let me show you how good I can be'.

Because when America held him close, Toris could feel warmth burning through him like trails of fire instead of a desperate cold seeping through his veins.

Because when America moved (beside him, on top of him, below him, against him, inside of him or him inside of America), Toris could hear the thundering of a damaged heartbeat, one-two and one-two-three, slamming against him and he didn't know if it was his or America's or maybe both, but…

When America cried against him afterwards, he whispered words of love. Toris knew he didn't mean it. Toris knew America had seen ruffled blond hair and thick eyebrows in place of the tangled brown.

That was okay, though, because Toris's own visions had shifted between a tall man with pale hair and broad shoulders… and a thin, slender build with smooth hair and a valley-girl accent.

With America, he was just as much of a game as he had been with Russia. But it was better, for the both of them, than being alone.

* * *

**A/N:** _Ah, America. You hurt more than you help, sometimes. Up next: Jewel. Sometimes when it comes to Prussia, Hungary thinks it's best to leave it half-broken, because that's better than shattering what they have completely._


	29. Jewel

Unpredictable. That is the word to pull together all that she feels about her once-best friend. Prussia is unpredictable and wild and untamable, but somehow Hungary had known that he would be waiting here for her.

(For Austria.)

Prussia stands in the doorway of her home (their home, hers and Austria's), looking a bit like a ghost, like she has to focus her eyes properly to adequately see him. Is that a byproduct of the dissolution? But he is visible, the hard line of his shoulders square in the rectangle of the open door, and his scarlet eyes reflect her expression of not-surprise.

He is taller than she remembers. Taller than her husband, and his hair is a bit longer too, so the fringe falls pale and snowy in his eyes. Hungary finds it a symbol of how very long it's been since the two have seen one another – long enough for hair to grow, for skin to pale, for nations to dissolve… long enough for Prussia to change.

But not long enough to make her forget.

He stands there like a statue for a long moment, until that smirk is gracing his face and bringing a new kind of canine sharpness to it – and her heart is beating up in her throat, and constricting there, and she imagines him repeating the words "I miss you, I miss you, I miss you" over and over again, like they can go back to being friends, like everything's… fine.

She imagines that Prussia's voice isn't as rough as she thought it would be; it's smooth but faceted like she remembers, like a precious and invaluable gem set into the grainy stone that has become her life. She doesn't know how she wound up clinging to him like a small child instead of shouting at him to stop breaking into her house, because really, she can't find the energy to care.

He's here. Prussia is here, and holding her, and her hands find holds in his coat (she has to re-learn the proper way to hug him, and God, he's not as strong as he used to be); they embrace like nothing has ever gone wrong between them. Like Prussia isn't lonely, like Hungary hadn't betrayed him this way.

As warm as she remembers. Heating her to her toes. He is as solid and firm as the boy she had beaten to a pulp all those centuries ago. When they laughed and cried together, when Prussia had kissed her and stroked her hair, and when Hungary hadn't broken his heart.

And she sobs, "I'm home."

Prussia is as valuable to her as the wedding ring around her finger, and it is that alone that keeps her from going any further.

Best to preserve what it only half-broken than to shatter it completely.

* * *

**A/N:** _A first for me. I don't tend to write Hungary/Prussia, but here it is - I hope it doesn't suck. Next: Just. Germany isn't Holy Roman Empire, not anymore - and why can't Just Germany be enough?_


	30. Just

Germany never needed an alarm clock to wake up bright and early in the mornings for training, but Italy had of course insisted on one to help him keep up with his friend's schedule. He didn't like lagging behind Germany the way he did, even if it was convenient to have Germany around to rescue him from England or Egypt, to help him escape POW prisons, to tie his shoelaces when he tripped over them.

So when the alarm gave its shrill metallic shriek at 5:00 in the morning – ungodly, wasn't it, 5:00 and still dark outside – Italy reached over and slapped it and wasn't surprised that Germany was already awake and getting dressed without prompting from technology.

Italy took his sweet time waking up. He told himself it was because he was a silly Italian and silly Italians always took a long time to reach full alert, that he had to yawn and stretch still – but he knew it was really because Germany had his back turned to him, and watching him pull off his nightclothes like this was a treat he didn't often get to see.

Germany was strong – well, he supposed that went without saying – and oftentimes intimidating, but the easy and graceful way he pulled his black wife-beater over his head was calm, almost soothing. His back was broad, with little scars along the skin from previous wars (one in particular, diagonal from the ribs of his left side to the hip of his right, made Italy shudder to think about – he remembered when the taller nation had gotten it, pinned and pride-broken at the clip end of World War Two). His arms were well-toned but not grotesquely over-muscular, and his shoulders were nice and firm and square and pleading to be touched.

These were the mornings Italy had to take the time to rethink his relationship with Germany, and remind himself again that he had to wait… wait for Germany to regain his memories, wait for him to come to the conclusion that he wanted Italy in return, wait for something that he knew, somehow, would never come to pass.

Any sign that the Holy Roman Empire might still be trapped in there was practically gone. Sometimes there would be flashes; sometimes Italy saw a look in those eyes, or heard a fluctuation in his voice when saying his name ("Italy," just like that, "Italy" with a nervous edge to it) and the blush in his face was the same, his eyes were the same, his hair was the same, even down to the way he stood protectively before him, or the way his face would color when Italy took his hand.

But there was nothing there for Italy anymore. Holy Roman Empire was long dead, wasn't he? Torn to pieces and not coming back, and it made Italy want to paint, want to sob, want to hold his Germany close and never, ever, ever let him go again.

Ludwig had once been Holy Roman Empire, but there was no Shinsei Roma, anymore.

This man pulling on his training clothes before him was Germany, tall and strong and muscular and shy, and the shy little boy from that mansion was long gone.

Just Germany.

And Italy wanted that to be enough.

* * *

**A/N:** _I really don't write enough of this pairing, and when I decided to, I had meant for it to be fluff. Guess I'm just nearly incapable of writing happy characters anymore. Next: Smirk. America holds a costume party._


	31. Smirk

**A/N:** _I'm keeping this one rated T because it doesn't get too explicit, but the warning for sexual content is now up. You are warned._

* * *

Alfred admitted he had never seen anything like Arthur Kirkland on Halloween.

This year's party was even wilder than the year previous. For one, more nations had shown up – and hey, there was Germany in what looked like a Frankenstein costume, and Russia had come only as himself ("I'm a serial killer. They look just like everyone else, da?" America still wasn't sure if that was a costume or not), and the Italy brothers had come as Mario and Luigi (at his prompting, of course, even if Italy had wanted to match Germany's costume) – and there were more snacks this time too, and someone had brought tequila, and hey, wasn't that awesome?

He pushed past France, who was of course in his traditional cat-ears-and-rose ensemble (he guessed France had just watched too much hentai when he was in Japan), and made his way over to the candy bowl, his spurs jangling when he walked – hopefully they wouldn't cut anyone, because damn but those things were sharp, and he remembered that little detail from experience.

Alfred had dressed as a cowboy. He'd thought about dressing as Superman, then realized he'd done that last year, and what was the fun in repeating costumes? But this outfit was bringing on all the good memories, so he was happy to wear it. If he closed his eyes, he could even imagine that the steady rhythm of feet dancing on his floor was that of a stampede, or a hoe-down, and soon he was grinning like an idiot and going off to dance with everyone else.

He got stuck between Poland and Lithuania for a few moments (they were dressed as Alice and the Mad Hatter), and then wound up dancing with Prussia (in a porn-star outfit, wanting to get busy), and eventually he was spinning and ran directly into someone else.

"Oh, sorry, I…" He turned around to apologize, and instead… well. His voice caught in his throat. In all of his time knowing England, he had never seen him looking this way… granted, it was Halloween, you were supposed to dress so people wouldn't recognize you, but… well. Holy mother of God. "…guh… England?"

The other was dressed up as a pirate. Okay, well, that was putting it lightly. Screw France's "sexy waiter" outfit giving America nosebleeds… this was above and beyond anything the sexy waiter could offer. The large hat rested upon Arthur's head, with a long feather sticking from it, and he was wearing an earring and pants that were tight but not uncomfortable-looking, and a long coat, and… oh.

Oh, God, and he was looking at Alfred like he was his next victim or something, going to make Alfred walk the plank or some shit like that, and he chuckled a bit, and Alfred could smell alcohol on his breath. He didn't care.

"You look a little nervous, lad," Arthur breathed, pulling him closer by his vest and making him shake and he was flushing red in the face. "Are you scared I'm going to hit you, or something?"

Alfred swallowed. "Um, well, no… No, I just didn't expect you to be dressed like… well. Like that."

"Like what?" Arthur pulled back slightly to trail his eyes down Alfred's body, lingering in areas, and nodded a bit. "Mm. You're not looking so bad yourself… cowboy."

Hearing Arthur say it like that, rolling it in his mouth like a piece of candy, it made all the wrong thoughts go to Alfred's head. His heart was pounding heavily, and he was nervous, and heat was trailing through his veins.

"…oh… uh…" He wasn't sure what to say to that. He was tongue-tied and kept fidgeting, and Arthur was leaning in closer, closer. "You're drunk," he said. "Come on, lay off the booze, you're gonna-"

"It's a party!" Arthur protested, rolling his eyes. "I plan on getting rightly smashed, thank you. Besides… it's not like it's a turn-off, is it? You seem a bit… ah, excited?"

Alfred couldn't believe him. Really couldn't, but he was right. It wasn't a turn-off at all. In fact, hell, if Arthur had a few drinks and was acting this way… well, what if it led to something?

"You brought rum, didn't you?" Alfred asked, and watched Arthur brandish the bottle. It was almost gone, he noticed, so Arthur wasn't that sober, was he?

Arthur came close and pressed them together. "Well… I know you have feelings for me, America." Alfred went beet red at this, and Arthur raised a hand when he opened his mouth to protest. "Ah. Francis told me. I suppose I'm a bit blind, aren't I, sometimes? Calling you a thick-headed hamburger-brained git, yet I was the one blindly ignoring your little silly attempts to make a pass at me." He laughed a bit and leaned against him.

"I wasn't making passes."

"They were passes, Alfred. Not very good ones, mind you, but passes nonetheless. Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to go ahead and make it up to you tonight. It's a party, I'm a little bit tipsy, and I've fancied you as well. I can tell you're liking the outfit I've chosen for your silly little Halloween bash, and I'm appreciating yours a bit… so let's just kiss and get carried away and make our way over to the bedroom, where I plan to fuck you straight through the mattress, and if this isn't going to work out, then we can blame it all on the rum—" He brandished the bottle again. "—and forget about the whole thing tomorrow. Does that sound good to you?"

…oh _God._

"…I… what?" Alfred all but squeaked out, and he didn't really have time to say much else because then Arthur was tugging him down by the collar of his checkered flannel shirt, and leaning up, and their mouths were meeting, though really Arthur did most of the kissing here – Alfred was a bit… brain-dead after that mattress bit (_oh God oh God oh God_) and his heart was hammering and he couldn't breathe because had it suddenly gotten hot in here, or was it just him?

But Arthur just reached one gloved hand up to cup the back of his neck and press them further together, and his mouth was starting to slant over Alfred's and his tongue was slipping inside and he tasted a bit like alcohol and a bit like scones and a lot like tea, and it was a good taste that Alfred had always dreamed of tasting, and his hands were at Arthur's back, gripping the cloth in his fingers. He didn't even seem to care that people were watching – that France was watching, more like gaping – and Arthur's hands… trailing down his body and then taking a hold at his hips, where his belt hugged at them, his big chunky Country-Western belt…

And suddenly they weren't on the dance floor anymore. No, Arthur was walking him, pressing him by the hips to force him backwards, and the pressure on the peaks of his hipbones was more than a little, well…

"Arthur… Ar-"

"Stop talking, Alfred."

The funny part is, they didn't even make it all the way to the bed. No, one minute Alfred was stumbling backwards and clinging and trying to steady his breathing, and the next minute he was pinned to the wall with one hand pressing on his hip and the other making him squirm because it was down his pants, and…

This wasn't how he wanted it to happen.

No, this was meant to be slow, to be a love-making, meant to be gentle and soft and "Alfred, I love you" and something worth dreaming about, later.

Then why was it going like this? Arthur slamming him up against the wall and… oh, where was that strength coming from? He was pushing those pants down and slipping them off but his boots were still on, spurs jangling, and then Arthur was lifting his legs and it was going too fast, too fast, far too fast – Alfred folded his legs around his middle and it must've hurt because the spurs were digging into Arthur's back – oh, but… And Arthur was kissing him, biting him, at his mouth an his ears and his neck and his collarbone.

It wasn't like what Alfred had wanted. It wasn't after a candlelit dinner with a beautiful rose-and-cologne atmosphere; Arthur wasn't dressed in his best civilized clothes, or making him blush and stammer with words like poetry; and Alfred wasn't happy.

That was the main problem, wasn't it? That Alfred wasn't… happy with this, even when he tried to twist it in his head to make it fit (twist his hips to get Arthur deeper and cry out and grip him tight, throat tightening when Arthur made a crack about him "_riding it out, Cowboy_"). No, this wasn't right. It wasn't supposed to be here, in the back bedroom of his house during a party, with Arthur drunk and violent and… oh, God, _taking_ him up against a wall, his legs splayed and boots jangling and his hat was crooked on his head, and he was trying to hold off, but…

It was over far too soon. He convulsed like that and clung to him and Arthur was… growling, hands holding his hips tighter and driving into him, biting into his lips and Alfred was going weak, and soon it was over and he felt a wash of warmth, and they were both breathing far too heavily, holding onto one another, empty.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

They slept there like that, after they'd curled up in tired heaps on Alfred's bed, but when Alfred woke the next day, his house was empty. Even Lithuania had gone home with Poland, and the house smelled like spilled alcohol and candy corn… not like scones or tea or burnt biscuits.

There… wasn't anyone here.

What about all that Arthur had said? About 'fancying' him, all that interest shown last night, everything he said…

…was it all just…?

Well. That wasn't necessarily bad, was it? I mean, Alfred was an adult, wasn't he, he could handle a little bit of… of…

_A bit of…_

He leaned against the counter and put his face in his hands and cursed himself for being so fucking stupid.

A little smirking and seduction, and he had been the idiot that England had always taken him to be.

* * *

**A/N:** _I'm sorry for the lack of... plot in this one. It's crack, but it was kind of bugging at me to be written. Cowboy!US and pirate!UK is just perfect on so many levels. Up next: Sorrow. China wants to mend what was broken between them - Japan wants to give it back._


	32. Sorrow

It is raining here today, in the older parts of Kyoto that are rife with culture and the scent of incense. Smoke curls up from where the candles of the shrine had gone out due to the moisture in the air, and China is knelt before it and hopes that the smell will catch in his hair, so that he might sense it again later and in his mind, he will be thrown back here – here, where his heart beats like drums, where his eyes can catch a glimpse of serious eyes set in a soft face, or a glance at glossy dark hair framing pale cheeks.

Here. Here is where he needs to be, where he wants to be, and his hands fist in the earth so that the dirt gets high up under his nails. Japan. Japan is what he has always wanted, will always want.

"You're here."

The voice behind him is soft enough that China has to strain to hear it over the pitter-patter of rain, and he turns around and isn't surprised to see Japan with an umbrella. He's wearing a T-shirt under his coat, and a pair of denim jeans, far too Western for China's liking but of course he will never say so, never give away that he still cares about the boy.

And he is a boy. Perhaps not young an naïve like America, but still youthful enough that he hasn't experienced the true horror of a nation's near immortality yet.

Pale hands are folded around the handle of the umbrella and he extends it in offering. China only shakes his head in the negative.

"Of course I am, aru," he speaks up, standing from his kneeling position before a shrine he has no faith in. "You wanted me to come. And so I came."

As if it were really that simple.

Japan tilts his head and the straightness of his bangs fans a bit to the side and he's so young, now, as he young as he ever was. "I found something that I believe belongs to you, China-san." His voice still brings a pang to China's old heart. China always was a foolish one and he knows it (remembers trusting Japan, forming alliances and friendships and putting all of his love into this beautiful child, only for Japan to turn on him, on beloved Nanjing – China still has the scars).

It takes only moments for Japan to reach into the inside pocket of his coat (always backwards, this boy was) and remove an old toy. It's familiar to China's eyes, far too familiar, cracked-wood and peeling-paint, the legs of it probably immovable and swollen from age. And he holds it out to China, and China stares at it almost pleadingly. "I don't want it, Japan, it's yours. I gave it to you."

So very, very long ago.

But Japan shakes his head and offers it once more. "I do not need it anymore. I have no practical use for it. It does nothing but collect dust anymore. _Onegai_. Take it."

China doesn't tremble. Doesn't sob or shake or beg for him to keep it (it's yours, it's yours, I gave it to you and it's yours and I don't want it, it will only bring about memories I would rather not have). No, he's far too old for such childish behavior.

Instead, he reaches out and ignores the way their fingers brush when he takes the toy (ignores the way Japan seems to flinch back uncomfortably), and this old relic is tucked away in China's pocket where he doesn't have to look at it.

And he bows. "_Arigato gozaimasu… Nihon-san_."

He stays bowed like that until Japan walks away. Until China's soft shoes are buried in the mud and until he composes himself enough to return upright.

The toy is safe in his pocket. He will go home and put it up in the top of a closet where he can take it down and treasure it like it is meant to be treasured.

Like Japan was supposed to have been treasured.

What did China to wrong?

* * *

**A/N:** _Dude, I wrote China/Japan. Huhn. I'd never figured that to be a pairing I enjoy so much. Next: Stupidity. In the midst of the Cold War, it's strange to think that Russia appreciates America's intelligence more than England ever did._


	33. Stupidity

_I want to, I want to be someone else so I'll explode_

_Floating upon the surface for the birds, the birds, the birds._

_You want me? Fucker, then come and find me_

_I'll be waiting with a gun and a pack of sandwiches._

_And nothing, nothing, nothing._

_Nothing._

_-"Talk Show Host", RadioHead

* * *

_

Alfred didn't like at all how this whole Cold War business was going.

First of all, it was called the Cold War for a reason (and it wasn't because Ivan's house was surrounded with slippery ice and snow that was anything but soft). While Ivan's smile haunted his nightmares and sometimes Alfred felt the ghost of Ivan's gloves on his shoulders, ready to pull him back and down – even for all of this, not a single shot was fired between them, no matter how Alfred fingered the trigger.

(Sometimes it got so tense that he had only one bullet in the chamber. And on even worse days, he didn't know whom the bullet was actually for.)

There was shouting done, certainly, and Alfred built up his nuclear weapons in preparation for the day Ivan decided to get cocky and fire first. Ivan would show off his muscle (metaphorically, of course, because boy is that a disturbing mental image), and Alfred would just go home and build up and be paranoid, cradling his guns to him and eyeing the door in case of intrusion, twitching.

It was only getting worse as the war progressed. The glaring, the filthy looks, mouthing little "Bring it on" phrases at one another – a few nations had begun a pool as to who would fire first, and Arthur had just laughed and said that no weapons would be fired in the course of this war, not this time.

It was something new and fresh in the book of warfare. How do you fight a war without any casualties?

Well. The United States always found new ways to do things, right?

But because things had gotten worse, sometimes even when the actual nations didn't declare any nuclear weapons to be fired, the personifications were still getting into each other's faces. Perhaps it was because of this absolute bristling tension that Alfred found himself in some kind of Old West showdown with Ivan, staring at one another from opposite ends of a hall – or like he was now, backed against a wall with that pipe in his face.

"You should be one with Russia," Ivan whispered into his ear, and as much as Alfred struggled he couldn't fight. (How fitting for their political circumstances.)

"Fuck you."

"Is that really what you want?" And Ivan's pipe trailing down his chest and pressing up between his legs until he felt sick.

"Fuck you, you fucking Communist bastard."

"Such dirty language." Ivan made a 'tsk' kind of noise and leaned in close, his voice low and sweet and childish despite his accent. "Would England like hearing you talk like this to someone who helped you during the last War?"

"Fuck England too."

"Oh, I am sure you would like to."

Alfred shivered and trembled and wanted to punch and kick and scream, but did nothing, just leaned against the wall and glared at him. "Leave England out of it."

Ivan chuckled softly and brought it down to touch the floor again, leaning on it almost like a walking stick. "But you don't really want me to do that… You care about England. Oh, but then… he doesn't care about you, does he, comrade?"

A chilling sensation overtook him and he tried not to let the statement get to him. It was just Russia being a bastard as usual, trying to get a rise out of him. And Alfred hated that it was working, that he was going through all of his own flaws and why Arthur never seemed to be able to overlook them to see a deeper person. Arthur only ever…

"He only ever sees America," Alfred whispered.

Ivan nodded knowingly. "Mm. Sees you as an ex-colony and not a person, da?" He gave a sickeningly sweet and sympathetic smile and Alfred wanted to slap right off his smug face. "Ah, but I see Alfred as well as the United States of America. You are so smart, comrade Alfred, why would England not see that?"

It was a trap. Alfred wasn't stupid, he knew it was a trap, and knew he was about to tumble headfirst into it if he didn't snap out of it. "Because…" Alfred was mentally digging his heels in, not about to be wooed by this… this Red, this 'become one' mentality. It was a trap. "Look, just let me go and shut the fuck up about England. You don't know what you're talking about."

"The look on your face says different, da," Ivan almost sing-songed. "You believe England thinks you are stupid. A child. Nothing but a little ungrateful idiot. I am right, da?"

"I… just shut up, fuck, you talk a lot," Alfred grumbled, going to push past him, but Ivan stepped in his way, looking far too gleeful. "You don't know what you're—"

"England may think you are stupid, but I don't," continued Ivan in that same childish voice of his, but nonetheless, it made Alfred stop, made him hesitate. "And don't you like it that someone can see how smart you are, Alfred? How brilliant you are? You are so bright, have so much potential…" Ivan brought him close, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip like a dance. And maybe it was, of sorts. "You could be so good."

Alfred was flushed red in the face and he was angry, but… hated himself for being so tempted, for wanting to curl up close to Ivan in that praise and that deathly cold, wrap himself in that coat and scarf and be loved…

"I'm already good," he spat instead, and shoved hard at Russia until he moved, and Ivan paused and watched after him, and Alfred could hear the smile on his face.

"_Do svidanya_, comrade America," Ivan sang, and Alfred just ran into the bathroom and proceeded to be sick.

* * *

**A/N:** _Yes, I wrote RussAmerica. It's short, but gets my point across that Ivan is really the only nation who can drive Alfred to such a state of paranoia and anxiety that he gets physically ill. I love Cold War stuff. It's so exciting. Next: Serenade. Waking up to a very off-key North Mexico belting "Cielito Lindo" up at his window was not how Alfred wanted to start the day._


	34. Serenade

Some might question why Alfred was awake at such an early hour of the morning, the clock blinking and bleary digital 4:06 and the sun not even bothering to stretch its sleepy fingertips above the skyscraper silhouette of New York City. Not to mention it was cold when he rolled out of bed – snowing outside, and the heater had broken down again a few days ago, so the hardwood floor was like ice on the bottoms of his bare toes.

So why was he up? It was a perfectly reasonable question; he was a young man in human terms, no more than nineteen years old (which made it really difficult to try and buy himself a beer at his own bar), and a world power on top of that. Strictly put, he could've kept sleeping right on until it reached nightfall again, and nobody was allowed to question him (except perhaps the mailman, but well, he was a mailman, wasn't he, and didn't know any better).

The reason for Alfred's consciousness right now was because of the headache marching its way through his skull like a protest on Tiananmen Square, and the reason for his migraine was currently standing outside on his lawn and belting some kind of… song up at him, if he could call it that, though he'd originally thought the racket was a stray cat caught in his fence again.

"What the hell are you doing?!" he hissed out of his open window, in nothing but his star-spangled boxers, arms wrapped around his torso as the cold air slapped his skin.

Maria Rodriguez (designated as Northern Mexico) looked all too innocent as he grinned her bright smile up at him. Her feet were buried in the snow that covered his backyard, and he only wondered for a moment how she got in before he realized that she'd probably just jumped the fence – maybe he could get some German guard dogs to keep her out.

"I am singing my heart out to you, Senor America!" she flourished, swinging her arms up toward him, looking like some sort of backwards Romeo. "_Mi hermano_, he tells me to wear my emotions on my sleeves… so I am wearing them, si?"

Alfred blinked down at her, glasses crooked on his face, which he hoped was depicting an expression that appeared as annoyed as he felt. "Maybe not in this case, Maria… why are you serenading me at _four in the morning_? Actually, no, don't answer that! Just… go home!"

"But…" And oh, Lord, she looked like a kicked puppy as he blinked those big browns up at him. "Senor America—"

"_Home_, Mexico," he sighed. "Please."

"But it is '_Cielito Lindo'_!" she protested, as if he would 1) know the song, and 2) forgive her for singing it at such an ungodly hour.

Alfred scrubbed a hand through his hair in irritation. "I've never heard of that song."

Of course, being the drama queen she was, Maria put a hand to her chest as if she'd been shot. Seriously, the chick could give _France_ lessons. "You have never heard of '_Cielito Lindo'_? Oh, _mi amor_, but it is my national song of love!" And she took this opportunity to open her mouth and start screeching it out at him again like nails on a chalkboard. "_De la Sierra Morena, cielito lindo, vienen bajando, un par de ojitos negros_—"

"Gah, stop, stop!" Alfred waved his hands to get her to quit, which she thankfully did, looking confused. "Look, I… I don't speak Spanish, I don't know what you're talking about."

"You… oh, _si_, of course!" She laughed and slapped a hand to her forehead. "Ah, _Dios mio_, I had forgotten how white you were." Alfred wasn't sure if he should be insulted or not, but decided to let it slide. "It is… a love song, _si_? About a beautiful woman who was left by the man of her dreams, but now the new man is coming and wooing her by singing about… her eyes and her mouth of brown sugar, and how close they are but she never acknowledges him. _Mi padre Espana_ taught it to me when I was just up to his knees." With this, she gave a swooning sigh. "Isn't it romantic?"

Well, okay, it did sound pretty romantic when she wasn't squealing like that. It might even be an okay song, if anyone else were singing it.

"So what then, you were dumped by someone and now I have to come and save you?"

She laughed again, but this time it was a bit harsher, actual amusement hidden underneath it. "No, silly! It is you who was 'dumped' by Senor Inglaterra!" Alfred's face went very hot at that, and he grew angry though he wasn't sure why, gripping the windowsill until his knuckles went white. "And I am here to show you love again, _mi amor_…"

He was shaking. When he regained enough of his senses to remember where he'd heard the song before, he bit out, "Didn't your people sing that at the soccer championship World Cup?"

He left her blinking there as he slammed the window shut and stormed back to bed. Part of him felt bad for just blowing her off like that, part of him was insistent that he was embarrassed about her bringing up Arthur…

And a larger part of him couldn't get that goddamn song out of his head.

* * *

**A/N:** _As mentioned before, both Mexicos belong to me. I don't write Maria too often, but when I do, I tend to go all-out. She's such a ridiculous character. Next: Sarcasm. Sometimes Prussia forgets that Russia doesn't have a sense of humor._


	35. Sarcasm

Sometimes it was difficult for Prussia to remember that Russia didn't have a sense of humor.

Okay, that wasn't entirely true – Russia would claim he had a sense of humor, and just thought that watching Lithuania squirm and cry was funny as hell.

But Prussia knew how dangerous it was to take risks in this house. He shouldn't have opened his stupid mouth, but really, he couldn't help it. It was just so easy to piss this guy off, to make fun of his antique clothes and his stupid huge nose, to totally freak him out by telling him that there were small animals living in his air vents that lived by sucking up heat like a sponge, and would one day inflate with so much hot air that they'd clog up the passage and all of the Baltics would freeze to death.

It was funny as shit, watching Russia standing under that vent and looking up into it, or else getting Latvia to go crawl around in there to find these mythic animals.

What a fucking idiot, right?

And it was just so funny, so very very funny, to sit back and watch this idiocy at work. What was less funny was when Russia figured out Prussia was kidding – and making fun of him.

Yeah, that was… less funny, because Prussia had dealt a blow to his dignity there, and Russia hit back, with five feet of lead.

Mm. But sometimes, just watching him searching for those little heat-absorbing rats, or trying to plug his lamp into the toaster to make it work, or trying to use Estonia's mental powers to get it to quit snowing…

Sometimes, it was just fucking worth a few bruises, wasn't it?

* * *

**A/N:** _I never write Prussia for a good reason. I gave it a shot. Next: Sordid. Finding America was one of the best things that had ever happened to England. Falling for him was one of the most unexpected._


	36. Sordid

Finding America was one of the most important events of Arthur Kirkland's life, which was definitely saying something, because there was a long line of rulers who were not shy in claiming otherwise.

He supposed that when he had found America there, a tiny thing hiding in the grass and surrounded by strange red-skinned men whose hands held him back, protective… he supposed that at that moment, he had found the true meaning of family. Forget Scotland and Ireland and the others; this little boy here and now was looking up and reaching for him and asking, in a voice as tiny as his little hands, to call him "brother."

Arthur was young then, he supposed, though he was technically only at most two years older now than he had been at that time. No, he had to have been young to be so very captivated by America's promise. All that land, fertile and wet, and not too far from England itself. It could have happened to anyone else – it did happen to others, he realized, to France and Sweden and Finland, everyone wanting to get their hands on this spot of light Arthur had called his own.

Alfred. The boy's name was Alfred, he decided, a nice "A" name to go with the brightness of his face. It was a good English name, meant "good counselor," and the boy liked it, laughed and bounced on the balls of his feet and said that any name Arthur gave him was a good name.

Alfred idolized him… or was it the other way around? Arthur coveting the bright optimism that the boy held about bloody everything… the intelligence, the happiness, eyes bright and wanting and full of unconditional love.

Nightmares came to Arthur all too often about losing the lad, and Alfred seemed to share that unreasonable fear, because there were times when Arthur would wake up and Alfred would be in his bed, clinging to him, whispering pleas in his sleep. So young… innocent, naïve, his little boy, his treasure, his paradise.

His.

But Alfred's dreams – oh, the poor boy, the dreams got worse as he grew older (as he grew up, but no, Arthur wouldn't think of that, not ever). He was brushing the barest edges of pubescence, his voice crackling when he spoke, and Arthur knew that it was due to his expansion westward, out into the unknown territories, and… oh, Arthur worried for him, would lay awake at night listening for the sobbing and for the rustling of Alfred's hands fisting in his sheets.

Arthur crawled in Alfred's bed now, found himself holding him close to his chest (the top of Alfred's head bumped his chin now), tightly, until Alfred's shivers subsided. Or sometimes Alfred would become unconsciously violent, trashing against his blankets, absolutely terrified by the prospect of ghosts or monsters or whatever it was the child was dreaming about.

Something happened. Alfred was growing up and Arthur wasn't sure quite how to get him to calm during these seizures, didn't know how to take him in his arms and make it all okay. It wasn't enough to simply soothe him this time or kiss the nightmares away; he had to physically restrain him, because Alfred was gaining strength, was trying to hurt him by flinging out his fists in every which-way and screaming for him all at once. "Arthur, don't go," he would shriek, "don't leave me here with the ghosts."

Eventually Arthur had to resort to climbing on top of him and pin his twenty-one-year-old body to Alfred's much younger one (young, oh so young, and this was wrong, so wrong wrong wrong). They… were close, close enough for their breath to mingle and for Arthur to feel the warmth emanating from Alfred's tears.

Far too close, really, and if he had been in his right mind then, he would have known that and pulled away.

But part of him… Lord, he was a sick man, because part of him liked it. In some demented part of his mind, there was something sensual about being so close to his boy, and it made him feel like a pedophile, and no, he wasn't Spain, he didn't have feelings for someone not even out of their teens, didn't… want Alfred, not like that.

But the nights that followed, Arthur had found himself watching Alfred's bed and wanting the boy to have another one of those bloody nightmares as an excuse to hold him down again.

He found himself staring in shame at Alfred's mouth during breakfast and going bright red when Alfred asked what he was looking at. The friendly, familial, brotherly feelings he had felt toward Alfred had… changed, and not for the better. The friendly feelings had been replaced by dirty ones, sexual ones, and it was wrong, so wrong, Alfred was his boy and his treasure and his paradise and he couldn't… feel like that toward him.

Arthur began to dream about Alfred, and not the little brother he had found in the grass. No, this was a new Alfred that invaded his mind, twisted him to think filthy things, to dream things he shouldn't have even begun to consider, and Arthur would wake up with a jolt, panting, sweating in the aftershock.

The little forehead kisses and soothing words weren't enough anymore. No, he needed Alfred in ways he never thought he would. He wanted Alfred's brighter-than-life scent, wanted his… taste, God, his touch, all of the things that had Arthur convinced that he had lost his religion completely.

Perhaps the Revolution had been for the best simply because of this fact. Alfred's height shot up up up until he was taller than Arthur, and those blue eyes were alight with anger as he declared independence from England (that little boy in the weeds, independent), as he stood up tall and all but spat in the face of King George.

(That little boy in the weeds… so tall, so strong, so… independent.)

And France, that bloody bastard, had taken the opportunity to sidle himself in beside Arthur's boy and put an arm around his waist and ally with him against the British Empire. Arthur could only imagine France… kissing him, fingers smooth and elegant as they dragged through Alfred's hair, and Alfred's breath stuttering and nervous and short, and it made Arthur sick, so sick, because shouldn't it be him doing that? Shouldn't Arthur be the one to hold him and smooth back his hair and…

No. No, no, no.

And now… Lord. Alfred had grown up so tall, hadn't he? Under France's love and care, Alfred had declared himself a nation and left and…

So tall.

And still, as Arthur tore down every drawing of Alfred's, tore the blankets from the tiny bed and held them up to his face to his inhale his scent (the more he did it, the more it smelled like him instead of the boy), he was closing his eyes and sobbing and imagining Alfred's tiny hands on his shoulders.

"It's okay," he would say. "Don't cry anymore, Arthur."

But it wasn't okay.

It was so, so _wrong._

_

* * *

_**A/N:** _This was one of my favorites to write. I love writing England, I've discovered; he's so easy to write for. And I do think he would feel major guilt about any feelings beyond parenthood that he would feel toward pre-Revolution America. Next: Soliloquy. Japan has always loved the English language... or is it the man teaching him that he's fallen for?_


	37. Soliloquy

America was one of the most talkative people that Kiku knew. It wasn't meant as a cruelty to think such a thing, but it was true nonetheless, just a simple stating of facts in this fact-less world in which the two nations lived. America enjoyed talking almost as much as Kiku enjoyed listening (because that was how you learned, how you picked up the little-knowns, by opening your ears and your mind and taking in whatever you could); whenever America would visit, leaned forward on his elbows on the small kotatsu, his lips would move and form these complex English statements that Kiku could barely follow.

English. It wasn't so much a beautiful language (not like Italian, like French, like Spanish) as an interesting one – especially as it flowed like awkward water from America's mouth, 'thes' and 'ands' and 'buts' and 'becauses,' tripping from his lips like clumsy school children, apologies and excuses and fumbled attempts at recreating what could have been poetry, at one point.

Kiku loved it. Everything about English was fascinating, from the articles to the conjunctions to the subject-predicate divisions, from the flowering awkwardness of finding the right tense (oh, so many tenses, present-perfect and past and future-perfect) to the way Alf-… _America_, he reminded himself, no sense in getting informal – the way his lips would just barely part on a half-formed word, distracted.

America had been the one to enter his home and open his arms and embrace Kiku's culture (and somewhere in his mind, Kiku thought of that almost literally, America's strong arms wrapped around his frame as Kiku would press himself into that coffee-smell, that sunshine-warmth, that bright happiness of sociality).

So Kiku was only trying to return the favor. Though sometimes, England told him he might be getting to deep, and that many came too close to America… and never lifted their heads out of that sense of freedom.

England said that Kiku would be like all the others who had fallen for America, and fall headfirst into that security and honesty – fall for America, only to get his heart shattered in return.

But no. It didn't seem right, did it? Besides, he wasn't falling for America's beauty and freedom and passion and language; he was falling for the look in those eyes every time Kiku spoke something correctly in English, or the way America's face brightened with boyish naïveté, or the way America would talk to him, leaning close, breath fanning over Kiku's face.

(Part of him wanted to take America's face in his face and kiss that sweet mouth right in mid-sentence, if only to watch that startled look on America's face, or feel him gradually melt into it. But Kiku was too afraid of having America push him away, reject his culture, too afraid of coming too damn close.)

Kiku wanted to pause in their lessons and ask America how to say "I love you" in English, only to be able to say it to him again and again, in different ways each time, and feel America's acceptance on his skin.

(Or maybe he just liked the fact that America was willing to come out here and spend time with him and be something like friends.)

English was a language of freedom and heart-swelling love and acceptance.

America was a nation of the same; and would never see Japan as anything more than a best friend.

_("Aishiteru… America-san.")_

("I love you, America.")

* * *

**A/N:** _Japan/America was too cute for me to resist. Japan's got such a boycrush on America, historically. Next: Sojourn. They had only meant to stay together for a short time; they wound up staying for eternity. Italy/Germany._


	38. Sojourn

Italy had only meant to stay with Germany for those few months as prisoner during World War One.

(_After seeing Germany's soft eyes and intent expression – so much like another that Italy had known so very long ago – he had stayed for an eternity._)

Germany had only meant to let Italy stay with him as a prisoner, against his will, trying to appear strong for his older brother.

(_After Italy had opened his arms and offered friendship, Germany hadn't been able to let him go_.)

Sometimes they think back on this, in the dark heat of the night, wrapped in one another like security blankets, and they count their blessings, grateful for not having followed that instinct to run.

* * *

**A/N:**_ I know this is short. I meant it to be. Next: Share. In the beginning, Prussia dreamed of his boy. Funny how things change._


	39. Share

In the beginning (and oh wasn't that a Biblical way to start things – ironic, considering) – no, but, in the beginning, in the midst of this stupid Holy War…

In the beginning, Gilbert's dreams consisted of Ludwig's body. (Such a tiny little prince, even in adolescence; Gilbert remembered taking the boy into his arms and stroking his hair and whispering nightmarish bedtime stories into his forehead.) But these dreams weren't of a grown Germanic nation, no. These dreams weren't of the majesty that the Holy Roman Empire could have become. These dreams were of Ludwig, curled into a broken and bloody ball at France's feet.

France had been his closest friend, at one point. France had been the one to look at him and see something worth taking in close and whispering sweet nothings to, and Gilbert had almost been such a fool as to believe them, had he not seen the man do the same thing to Spain. Their trio was a sacred one, untouchable, strong and invincible – until this goddamn Holy War.

Now France was no longer a friend; now France wasn't a source of comfort or happiness, but of bitter hatred. France had been the one to break down this sacred boy of Gilbert's, and thus break down Gilbert himself.

So in this terrible beginning of the end – the end of their friendship, really the end of their Trio (though they would try to mend it over and over as time passed) – in this beginning, Gilbert dreamed of the Holy Roman Empire's demise.

Sometimes he woke up with tears in his eyes, trembling and clutching his sheets and mouthing 'nein' over and over again.

Sometimes he woke up angry with those he once called his friends, and would throw things, vicious and burning in hatred at this betrayal, cursing Napoleon's name.

And sometimes he wouldn't do anything at all. Just lie there in the pitch-dark and stare up at the ceiling, pretending that Ludwig was still here – sleeping, perhaps, or crying softly at a skinned knee, or chasing that little Italian maid.

(Scaring mice away, saving her from "monsters;" Prussia had seen monsters, but he never told him so.)

But times had changed so that Gilbert dreamed of this terrible painful death less and less and still less. Times were so different now; the tragedy of a child had nothing to do with modern day, not like snow did, or ice, or… sunflowers.

Sunflowers.

"_My sunflower_."

This was the true beginning, then, wasn't it? Not only to lose his Holy Roman, but to lose himself in a new sort of War… to lose his land, his people, his power, his… to lose himself. This giant of a nation had marched into his life with a cold smile and broad shoulders, scooped him up and claimed him.

Prussia belonged to nobody. Especially not like this.

Russia towered over him or held him down or whispered into his ear (like France had, once, words of promise and friendship and love) until Gilbert could close his eyes and repeat the words, memorized.

("_My sunflower. One day I'll take you away from here, da, far away where the sun touches the horizon, and we can be surrounded by fields of sunflowers, and you can smile at me like all the warmth in the world has touched your skin. You are everything, Prussia, if only you behave… and you can have everything as well._")

If only he behaved.

When had he ever behaved?

So he was beaten and denied food, but made sure not to cry once, not to beg, not to break himself down like the Baltics had. And at night, curled up in at Russia's side, he would dream.

These dreams were so different from the ones he would have centuries ago. These were dreams of frostbitten toes and jutting bones, of sunflowers frosted over with blood, and of that smile shining like a Cheshire in the dark – if he was the sunflower, then that smile was the sadistic child, come to pick him and keep him for its own.

The dreams twisted his already warped perspective on the world until he grew nearly as paranoid as that shaking pathetic mess, Lithuania. Every mention of Russia had him nearly in full blind panic; not that he ever showed it. No, on the surface he was calm, not a tremble in his bones, ready to fight or flee or slam some faces into walls.

On the surface, he was the Germanic nation he'd wanted Ludwig to grow to be – _and he had grown to be that, hadn't he?_

God, Ludwig.

The longer he was away, the more powerful the urge grew to know what was happening in Germany. Was Ludwig doing all right without him? The brat had always been dependent on him (no, not really, but Gilbert liked to pretend such things to make Ludwig seem young again), and he might… crumble, or collapse, or something equally dramatic without Big Brother around to save his sorry ass. As usual.

No. Not really. Ludwig was strong enough to take care of himself. He didn't need Gilbert anymore, did he?

Nobody needed Gilbert anymore.

And what happened to Nations, once they weren't needed?

Sometimes instead of dreaming of Russia, he dreamt of what was becoming of his brother. Partying over in the West, no fucking doubt, he and America lifting their glasses together, laughing and being all buddy-buddy, and Italy would be with them, and it would all go to hell because they didn't know what Russia was planning, over here in this world of ice. No, they had no fucking clue.

Or he would dream of Ludwig going to war without him, conquering and commanding, and Gilbert wouldn't be around to see his victory.

But mostly, when he dreamt of Ludwig, he dreamt of a much smaller boy in a wide dark hat, lying sprawled on his front with one of Russia's knives stuck deep into the tiny back.

And Russia laughing, twisted in the darkness, sing-song, "We can share him now."

("_I'll get the west half, and you can have the east_.")

splitting the poor child in half and painting his own pale skin in Ludwig's blood and _ohgod ohgod ohgod_

Waking up in violent trembles, with Russia looming over him.

"Were you dreaming about me, sunflower?"

_Fuck_.

In the beginning, Gilbert dreamt of Ludwig.

He could only wonder if Ludwig dreamt of him, as well.

* * *

**A/N:** _I liked this one, even if I fail at Prussia. But the next one was my favorite to write, ever. Next: Solitary. Alfred's always loved his cowboys. But really, there was only one he'd ever really fallen for._


	40. Solitary

_"There was something very peculiar about Doc. He was gentlemanly, a good dentist, a friendly man and yet, outside of us boys, I don't think he had a friend in the Territory. Tales were told that he had murdered men in different parts of the country; that he had robbed and committed all manner of crimes, and yet, when persons were asked how they knew it, they could only admit it was hearsay, and that nothing of the kind could really be traced to Doc's account. He was a slender, sickly fellow, but whenever a stage was robbed or a row started, and help was needed, Doc was one of the first to saddle his horse and report for duty."_

_-Virgil Earp, interview in the Arizona Daily Star_

* * *

The saloon was close to closing by this point, Alfred guessed, with the hour hand on the clock brushing eight. But count on the Oriental to be hopping with boozers so close to when the doors were scheduled to lock – men in alcohol-stained waistcoats and women in bodices, the occasional child plucking at the sleeve of their parent for attention. It was more crowded than Alfred had ever seen it, and he supposed he had Mr. Earp to thank for that; hey, what was good for the bar's business was good for America, and what was good for America was of course excellent for Alfred, being the embodiment of the nation itself.

He stood back, leaning against a wall opposite from a large concentration of the crowd – he loved a good audience for when he played the piano in the corner, but there was a drinking game on, so a second rendition of "Red River Valley" would have to wait for another day. At least his people looked happy. And wasn't that a thought that made his heart just swell? His people, happy, even after the terrible agony of nearly being ripped in two.

The terrible loss sustained in that Ford theater – he hadn't stepped foot in it since.

But there was one man sitting alone in the corner, his dark hat pulled down a bit so the brim concealed his eyes from the crowd – hadn't anyone told him that wearing hats indoors was rude? – but then Alfred realized who it was, and his heart sank a bit, and he wandered over.

"Mr. Holliday?" Alfred hated the way his voice sounded so childish around Doc, but he knew that the good dentist didn't mind it. "Why are you over here by yourself? I thought you were going to go have another round with the Earps." He motioned over to the corner, where the brothers were gathered, each laughing and downing another shot of whiskey.

Doc was a good man. A really good man, and Alfred knew this from experience – really, that girl Kate of his didn't know how very lucky she was to have a man like this. His voice was smooth and almost French when he spoke, with that lilt of a Southern Gentleman accent, and his hands never shook when he dealt cards even though Alfred knew the man was in pain a good percent of the time. The thought of losing him was almost worse than the memory of losing Lincoln; Lincoln's death had come and been, but Doc? Doc would be fresh and painful and like losing something very precious to him.

Like losing an older brother, or a father, or a friend, or a…

Well. Let's not examine that too closely, how Alfred imagined himself curled up close to Doc on the nights he was the most sick, or pictured himself pressing kisses to his pale forehead. Doc needed someone, flatly put, and Kate wasn't getting the job done – besides, it was obvious she only loved Doc for his expertise, and Alfred wasn't talking about dentistry.

Doc tilted the brim of his hat up a bit; his eyes were bloodshot as usual, but still dark and sly as ever, and a small smile quirked his mouth. "Oh, it's you, Alfred," he murmured. Alfred wasn't sure Doc wanted him around all of a sudden, and was about to apologize for bothering him, face burning and red and embarrassed, when the man motioned to the chair next to him. "Sit down, son. I was just about to play a round of solitaire."

Alfred didn't like when Doc started dealing out the childish nicknames ("son," "boy," "kid"), but did as he was told and sat beside him. Doc's long fingers laid down the cards on the stained red tablecloth.

"You play any cards, Alfred?"

"Um…" Alfred thought about the last time he'd tried to play cards with his brother, and how Matthew had beaten him – and of course the world-class fit he'd thrown at losing. But he wasn't a small child anymore. "Not really. I mean, I have before, but I'm not really a player. Not like you or Wyatt."

Doc's eyes flicked over to him at the mention of Wyatt. He knew the two were close, probably closer than either would care to admit, but since it brought an odd fluttery feeling to Alfred's stomach to think about it, he tried not to bring it up.

"Well, there's a trick to it," Doc said, putting the remaining cards face-down to the side. "Perhaps I could teach you sometime. People normally think that poker is just a game and gambling, but those of us in the trade know better, you see. I would tell you it's all in the wrist…" He flicked a card from out of his sleeve, and Alfred grinned. "But then I would have to kill you, you see."

"Right," Alfred laughed. He knew Doc cheated – hell, everyone in Tombstone knew that Doc wasn't exactly an honest man when it came to gambling, and would do anything to get the money – but it's not like he cared. It made Doc happy, and it made that bitch Kate happy, and that's all that mattered to him. "But you're not playing poker right now."

Doc shook his head. "No. I've decided to retire my performance for the time being. My audience tends to get a bit, ah… riled up when I show off my talents. I believe they forget how very shallow I am."

His face was heating up again, and Alfred's heart hammered loudly as he looked to the side a bit. "I don't think you're shallow."

In the span of a very brief moment, Doc looked at him, and Alfred was almost afraid that those dark eyes would look into him and know. But he just smiled again, his lips pale, unhealthy and sickly and wonderful. "I am a very selfish man, Alfred. You're young still; you haven't had the opportunity to open yourself up to the glories of being self-centered quite yet. Give it time."

Alfred watched him start to play, and he realized after a while that he was biting his lip. "Can I play with you?"

He tried not to get too discouraged when Doc laughed softly. It wasn't a criticism, and he knew it, but he was so used to England's open mockery that he couldn't help but be a bit sensitive to it. "The point of solitaire, son, is that you play it alone," Doc explained. "I suppose you don't do much of that. But I find it is beginning to become a frequent occurrence in my life to begin participating in solitary activities. Perhaps an irony I should have foreseen."

Doc was laying down more cards as if the statement was just a fact of life, but Alfred knew better. He knew how it felt to be completely surrounded by "friends" and yet have no one; knew how it was to be so very achingly lonely even though those around you claim to want to help.

Had anyone helped him then, when the Confederates decided that they didn't want him anymore? Had anyone come to his aid when Lee had a gun pointed to his throat? No. There had been no England there to help him, then. No friends to hold him when he broke down crying. After Lincoln, nobody had been there to try and help him pick up the pieces.

His so-called "friends" hadn't come for him when he needed them most. And now Doc Holliday was over here sitting in the corner playing cards by himself while his so-called friends were hording attention and downing booze like there was no tomorrow (which, for them, there might not be – Alfred sometimes forgot how very human humanity was).

Doc was as alone as he was, wasn't he? Perhaps even more so. And yet he had opened up and allowed Alfred into his life, into his inner circle of admirers, and Alfred had never felt more honored in his entire life as an independent nation.

"Does…" Alfred's voice had gone at this realization, and he worked to keep his gushing to a minimum. "Does Wyatt play solitaire, you think?"

Doc smiled sadly to himself, and his hands hesitated, and he looked back slightly to where Wyatt was laughing with his brothers, with that actress hanging off his arm.

"No," Doc softly spoke. "No, I don't imagine Wyatt plays solitaire, Alfred."

Wyatt, surrounded by friends and family. Doc, alone here in the corner, him and Alfred and a deck of cards.

"You wanna… play some Go Fish?"

And Doc smiled a bit brighter now, and it made Alfred's heart leap straight into his throat, and he wanted to cling and cry at the sight of it, beg Doc not to leave him, beg him to just… stay.

"I think that sounds _divine_."

Maybe Alfred was just lonely because England had started visiting him less and less since the Civil War, or perhaps he was upset because he hadn't shown any sign of assistance during it.

But with Doc, he thought as the man started dealing out cards, shifting his solitaire game for a nice game for two – well, maybe with Doc, playing solitaire wouldn't be necessary anymore.

Maybe with Doc, they could be alone together.

* * *

**A/N:** _I love Doc Holliday way too much, and I sincerely believe that Alfred would have fallen head over heels for him. Other posts with Doc/Alfred will be posted as separate fics, including a rather long one I plan to write documenting Alfred's life in Tombstone with Mr. Holliday. Next: Nowhere. This American Dream had finally landed him where he knew he'd always wind up - nowhere._


	41. Nowhere

The one thing that Alfred was fairly sure he hadn't stolen from England was the prospect of the American Dream. Think about it: if you just followed the rules of the game, you could go from being a pauper on the street to being a big business investor in the span of a night.

"America's business is business." President Hoover had it right on the nose, hadn't he? This was the Dream, here and now – the stock market, doing more for him than any agriculture ever could.

This was the best life he could possibly hope to live.

The party was raging as busy as ever in his currently crowded house, six blocks from Wall Street. It wasn't often that he felt confident enough to invite his own citizens over – most everyone had no idea that they'd just been invited to their nation's party, just thought that Alfred Jones was another lucky schmuck in this time where everyone seemed to be hitting it big – but lately, his economy had been so grand, dreams had been achieved, hopes and hearts were soaring until they just about touched the sky.

"Roaring twenties." What an accurate term for a time like this. Every day, Alfred would look out his window at the tall buildings, gleaming and bright, the people below grinning happily and throwing money into the air and cheering, and their happiness brought Alfred's happiness; their luck brought upon Alfred's adrenaline rush.

So the party raged, because Alfred felt high on life and stocks, and the people around him in their pinstripes and business hats, they were all laughing as they popped the champagne. He'd never seen his people so thoroughly happy with their financial situation. He'd never felt so very _alive_ as he did in 1929.

This was a decade for Kings, he decided. He remembered a line from one of England's books – "The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of other things; of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings."

That's what he was doing now. He was the King here, and felt so damn good, felt all of that investment buzz his head, heard the jazz music drifting up from downstairs, watched the couples dance together in his living room, and he sat there sipping his champagne, and grinned.

This… This was what America was all about. Dreams and hope and life.

"Tell the band to go louder!" Alfred shouted to one of the hired cleaning crew – can you imagine? Hired to clean! He'd tell them to try investing later, better money that way – and took another sip of his drink as he spun out to join the others. He brought up one of his young ladies and spun her in a circle, watching her laughter, her bright and smiling face.

"Louder!" he told another crewman, still unsatisfied with the buzz of the crowd, and the woman was practically cackling now as he dipped her in his arms and brought her back up again, pulling her close, dancing them in circles-

Tripped. Just slightly, feeling his mind go a bit foggy for some weird reason, a pang hitting him in his lower stomach and he felt sick all of a sudden, like he was going to throw up. "Urgh…" He leaned against the nearest sofa, blinking away the clouds in his eyes.

"Alfred? You okay?" the woman asked him over the roar of the music, and now that he thought about it, he did feel better. Yeah, he was fine, perfectly fine, back to that partying mood. Weird.

"Just a dizzy spell," he told her with a shake of his head and a smile. "I'm fine." Champagne glass in one hand, he took her arm and brought himself upright again, though he was a bit worried about that. What the hell was that about? Normally when his health randomly dipped like that, it meant a more National matter, most likely financial. But that was impossible. Look how great he was – how great they were – and this woman was so pretty, and if he was lucky, maybe he could have a little bit of fun tonight, sixteen years old and feeling dandy—

Oh. Oh God.

It was as if someone came up behind him and cracked him over the head with a baseball bat. Or like he'd just been punched in the stomach. He'd barely had time to give a cry before he suddenly fell, bent double with his arms around his middle, face contorted into an expression of pain – sweat beaded on his forehead at the effort of clenching his teeth, and his breath came ragged, heavy.

What the fuck was-?

"Alfred?" It was the woman again. Pretty little brunette thing, reaching for him. "Are you-?"

"Get out!" he managed to grind out, and was more than happy when they obeyed. One by one, all of his guests scrambled out of his house, leaving him there to feel his knees give and bang harshly against his hardwood floor, glasses falling from his face to crack on a table, and each breath came as a whimper.

His knuckles paled as he clutched at anything he could grab hold of, eyes trying to focus on something, stomach turning with the threat of sickness.

Well. There went Wall Street.

---

They were calling it "Black Tuesday," the day that Alfred collapsed.

It was accurate enough. The entire market, all the banks, everything… falling through; hopelessness and panic suddenly striking his people with the force of a speeding train, sending once-successful businessmen to leap from top-story windows and send shocks of pain through Alfred's already damaged system.

Like nothing else he'd ever felt before. The hospital didn't know what was wrong with him because they weren't aware of who he really was – what he really was – and so he was just left there, as millions of his people went homeless, living in those half-formed little shantytowns ("Hoovervilles," how appropriate) and begging for money off of strangers, strangers who couldn't possibly give it.

What had become of his American Dream? (From prince to pauper in the span of a night, that's what America had become.)

Doctors fretted and tut-tutted over him as he coughed up the blood and bile of failing banks, tears streaming down his feverish face as violent tremors seized him. Each new Hooverville built, each new collapsed industry, each stock that fell through or loan unpaid – it brought him closer and closer to the edge, until he felt himself teetering there, staring down into an abyss of he didn't know what.

And when a sudden raw burning rash tore across his midriff, they'd given up on him, not knowing where the new illnesses were coming from, not believing him when he told them.

The Dust Bowl was putting all of his farmers out of business and moving west to search for work, and it would never get better, not ever, not so long as Hoover promised it would solve itself.

Bullshit. This wouldn't solve itself. He needed a Hero right now, he needed that American Dream back, he needed…

He needed to believe that this American Dream hadn't driven him to Nowhere.

"America." He heard the voice before he opened his eyes, though he knew who it was just from the sound. If there was one voice that he could recognize before they even spoke, it was this one. "America, I came all the way here to see you; the least you could do is bloody look at me."

Alfred ignored the tone of desperation behind it, because he knew that Arthur hadn't meant for that to slip through. He cracked open his eyes, unsurprised by the irritated expression on the face of the United Kingdom, and he tried for a smile, but only managed more of a grimace. "Hey, Iggy."

"Yes, hello to you as well." Arthur pulled his jacket tighter around him when Alfred expected him to take it off. In fact, it looked baggier on Arthur than Alfred had last seen. "So this whole bloody Depression is your fault, is it?"

Ouch. Okay, he hadn't expected England to come in here with the insults already poised.

"Ah… I wouldn't say that." Alfred's mouth was dry, he noted; it made it difficult to speak. "I mean… I thought the stocks would be doing well, and…"

Arthur made a 'tsk' noise, as if he wasn't surprised. "Well, I wouldn't expect you to understand how these things work." As if Alfred was a child. As if he didn't know any better. He hated when Arthur talked to him like he was stupid. "I thought you'd like to know that your illness has hit most of Europe as well. That's why I came here, after all."

Mm. Of course. Alfred should've expected this to be business.

"Of course," Arthur continued nonchalantly, "I hadn't expected you to be in the hospital when I got here. Had to tell the doctors I was your brother just to get in here to see you. Don't they know that-?"

"No," Alfred quickly told him. "No, I… well, I told them, but they don't believe me. They're threatening to send me to the loony bin if I keep it up."

"As if you could afford to pay your way out of an asylum at this point, let alone to be locked up in one."

There was a pause, uncomfortably long, as Alfred tried focusing on everything that seemed different about Arthur. For one thing, his hair had gotten even more wild than usual – no haircut in a while, obviously – and his complexion was pale, with dark circles under his eyes. Alfred wondered how badly Britain had been hit.

"You don't look so good there, Artie," Alfred said in a voice that sounded rough even to his own ears.

Arthur made a face. "Well, you aren't exactly roses and sunshine yourself." It shouldn't have hurt to hear him just brush off the concern like that, but it did, and that must've showed because Arthur's expression softened just slightly. "Look, I'm alright. I'll manage, in the long run. Worry about your own fool self, and for Heaven's sake, pull up out of this… _hole_ you've been dragging the rest of us into. You look like hell."

He knew that. He knew that his normally neat hair was sticking up in all directions, that he had blood crusted in the corners of his mouth, knew that his eyes looked sunken and hollow and bloodshot from this sickness.

Not that he would show that, if given the choice. "I'm fine," he told Arthur, going for a smile that hurt his chapped lips. "Hoover says this'll all blow over soon. Says it'll fix itself if I just… give it ti-" He had to cut off in the middle of it to have a violent coughing fit, covering his mouth with both hands, and feeling a glop of blood wrench up from his lungs and into his palms.

From an inside pocket of his jacket, Arthur produced a few napkins and handed them to him. "Here." Alfred pretended not to notice the look of concern there as he cleaned up his hands and mouth, still shivering from the force of the cough. "I thought I told you to take care of yourself."

"I'm trying, okay?" Alfred wheezed out. "It just sort of… it hit unexpectedly. Don't worry, it'll blow over and then we'll get everyone back on track." He said it apologetically; and he was sorry, so very sorry, for dragging everyone into this.

It was practically visible, watching Arthur's walls come down, watching an expression grace his face like that of the Arthur that Alfred had known as a small child; and Arthur came forward and pulled his blankets up more, and shook his head. "Don't worry about us," he said softly. "Just try and take care of yourself. Clean yourself up, and get a new bloody president that isn't going to sit back and let you kill yourself like this."

Alfred blinked up at him, surprised by all of the caring in those touches, and he smiled a little. "Thanks."

"Quite." Arthur pulled back and glanced at his watch. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a Prime Minister to attend to." He turned without even a goodbye and began walking away.

"Arthur?"

Arthur paused in his steps but didn't turn around. "Yes?"

"Why have you lost so much weight?" Alfred asked, having noticed the extra folds of clothes that hadn't been there before, the thinness of Arthur's wrists, the barest traces of gauntness in his face.

"Hunger strikes." Arthur began walking again. "Don't worry about it."

Watching him go, Alfred lay back down against the stiff hospital pillows, breath rattling in his lungs, and sighed.

This American Dream had really gotten him nowhere, hadn't it?

* * *

**A/N:**_ I'm actually happier with how Arthur came out in this than Alfred. Weird, ne? Next: Neutral. What if the Zimmerman telegram hadn't been intercepted?_


	42. Neutral

_What if the Zimmerman Note hadn't been intercepted?_

* * *

It was a sunny and hot afternoon in Mexico City the day that Maria received the call.

Her and her brother had been busy for weeks – "busy" meaning Maria was making trips to America to tidy up his house while Pablo sat on the sofa and watched the news with a bottle of tequila, taking shots whenever one of the nations took a hit. A messy way to have fun during these times of hardship, but it was a distraction from watching the others harm themselves, so for that much, they were grateful.

America had sworn to keep neutral as well, so it wasn't as though they were lonely. Sometimes America came over and sat on the couch with her brother and just watched the news with a look of devastation in his eyes. Of disappointment.

(Sometimes she wanted to brush his hair out of his face, and kiss his mouth, and promise him that things would get better, somehow.)

But America wasn't here when the telephone rang in the sweltering afternoon – the air conditioner had broken again, and her brother had yet to fix it, though he sat there fanning himself with his sombrero – and so Maria was left to pull her hair back and rush to the phone, ready to curse out the telemarketer that dared to call when it was so damn hot.

"_Bueno_," she answered, none too happily, and was more than surprised by the voice that responded.

"_Guten tag_," Germany's voice answered over the line, and she had to pause to make sure it was really him she was hearing. Why would he call here? He had no business calling their house, not when he had war to wage, other nations to conquer.

"…what do you want?" Maria tried to keep her voice from being so tight and clipped, but couldn't help the annoyance and suspicion that leaked through. She saw Pablo from the corner of her eye turn to her and perk up in curiosity. No. No, he didn't need to know. Her little brother didn't need to know about this.

Germany, too, was obviously trying to keep calm at her lack of manners. Good. "_I was wondering if you missed your lands that America took from you. California, Texas, Arizona. Do you miss it? Having all of that land_?"

If she were honest with herself, she did. She missed it more than anything. She remembered being a more powerful nation – a stronger, more certain power in the world, owning what she owned and having it all be her own, back when she worked for no one, back when she was on this planet for herself and only herself. Back when she couldn't care less about the safety of others. Back when she had been a conqueror, or something like it.

Not that she would ever tell the Germans that.

"Senor America is taking good care of them," she told him instead. "They're in good hands. Why? What does it matter to you?"

"_I was calling to make a proposition_," Germany replied. "_It would involve winning back the lands you lost in the war against America_."

Okay. Okay, that made her pause. Her hands clutched the phone a bit tighter, eyes looking over to her brother for a brief moment before averting from his. He was still up like a prairie dog, eyes alight, mouth in a bit of a frown – wondering, wondering, always sticking his innocent nose where it didn't belong.

She couldn't let him know what was happening. It would ruin him.

"… I'm listening," she said quietly.

Germany's next words sounded a bit more optimistic. "_Wunderbar. I assume you can get into America's house without any trouble, being one of his employees_?"

"Well…" Maria faltered here. "_Si, pero_-"

"_And he trusts you, being one of his best friends_?"

She didn't like where this was going. "_Si, pero_-"

"_It wouldn't take very long, and I doubt it would be difficult for you_." There was the sound of paper rustling from the other end, as if Germany were sorting through files. "_All I'm asking is that you help me to take America out of the picture before he becomes a threat. And to keep this call a secret, of course. No sense in getting everyone overexcited_."

Take… America… out?

What did that even mean, in the grand scheme of things? She imaged America, broken and bleeding at her feet, looking up at her with burning hatred in his eyes. Betrayal in the sky-blue, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth.

Imagined Pablo finding out that she had hurt America because of an agreement with Germany.

Oh, her brother would be heartbroken if he found out.

"And… this would… get my lands back?" she asked to clarify.

"_Ja. In return for helping me, I would help you retrieve all of your lost lands that have since become states of America's_." Another pause. "_All I need is your assistance_."

God. Just help to take down America, and all of that could be theirs again.

But to take down America would hurt the friendship between them, would hurt her brother (who held more than a bit of a torch for America himself), would hurt everything she ever loved.

"No."

"_Nein_?" The tone of surprise was clear.

"No. I can't. Senor America is one of my friends. _Mi hermano_'s as well. I can't do that to him."

She waited for a moment, biting her lip, before he responded. "…_Ah. I see_." She heard the scritch of pen on paper. "_That's really too bad, Mexico. You were promising_."

Without another word, there was a 'click' and then the dial tone kicked in, and she held the phone numbly before gently hanging it up as well.

"_Hermana_?" Pablo whispered. "Who was it?"

Maria turned to him, saw the curiosity in his eyes, the tone of his voice quiet like a child caught eavesdropping.

"Nobody, _hermano_. Go back to your news."

Feeling sick to her stomach, she grabbed her feather duster and made her way into the kitchen. Sometimes it was better to just keep to themselves.

* * *

**A/N:** _This is my first time writing from Maria's POV, so excuse me if it's a little awkward. Next: Nuance. At the international conference in Moscow, Poland notices how much Lithuania has changed._


	43. Nuance

The international conference had been held in Moscow in the middle of February, at Ivan's own insistence; not that Feliks minded it so much, because it meant that he and Liet could get a hotel room and snuggle, and anything that involved snuggling was automatically, like, totally cool.

Of course, it would've been more awesome if Liet had actually shown up at their room. Feliks sat up waiting probably way later than he should've waited, sitting up in their room and getting restless; he'd tried reading a book, tried drawing a little doodle, tried writing something, but instead wound up wandering down to the lobby to wait there instead.

It was cold down there. Well, duh, it was in the middle of Moscow, with the snow piling up outside like it was having a contest or something, but this cold was like ice had taken a gas form and was now attempting to freeze his lungs. He was in his bathrobe and the cutest pajamas, little pink things with a paw print pattern on them, and still he could feel the winter run frosted fingers down his spine, making him shiver and wonder how in the hell Liet survived here.

At least there was a fireplace. He started up a fire and watched it crackle and pop pleasantly, tried warming his toes from within the comfort of his slippers. His fingertips had nearly gone numb by the time he heard the voice, quiet and familiar and friendlier than most others.

"Wh-What are you doing up at… at this hour?"

Most would mistake the stammer there for a shiver due to the weather, but Feliks knew better. He didn't even jump when he turned around to face the speaker, a smile of relief on his face. He should've expected the lanky form standing beside the entrance to the lobby, but if he were being honest, he had lost hope in him showing up at all.

"It's… It's nearly three in the morning," Liet said, serious look on his face as usual, standing there in his paisley pajamas that were a few sizes too big on him. He walked over and blocked Feliks's view of the fire, but Feliks didn't mind. "B-budge over, please."

'Please.' Honestly, the guy was way too polite. Feliks yawned as he did as he was told and gave Toris room to sit down. Curiosity overtook his manners as usual, and he cocked his head at Liet in irritation. "Like, where the hell were you? I was, like, totally waiting."

Toris looked to the fire and shrugged a shoulder. "Out for a w-walk."

Feliks gave an overdramatic sigh and flicked his hair a bit as he watched the flame's show, watched tendrils of orange snake around the log and consume it. My, how very Russian. Part of Feliks hadn't really been waiting for Liet, but rather for an excuse to pop up, because he knew where he'd really been.

Knew that Toris had nightmares to rival Japanese horror movies, the dreams that always seemed to come back to blood, the ones that would haunt his poor friend for months and cloud his head. He had been out trying to walk off the visions of death under his eyelids.

Toris barely shifted, just enough to bring Feliks back to reality, the knocking of their knees a touch that was a bit too intense for either of them right now. (Though part of Feliks wanted Toris to reach over and take his hand. Stupid.) He could feel Toris inching closer to him, pressing their thighs together for more warmth. The entire loveseat seemed to move as he did, barely bumping knees again, then shoulders, and bits of Toris's unruly hair were tickling Feliks's skin pleasantly.

His face was hot but he could always blame it on the fire. Toris had always been bigger than Feliks physically, heavier, though not really overweight. Hell, if the guy sucked in a breath, Feliks could count his ribs – that was Russia's doing, there, a starvation diet. But he was still bigger nonetheless, so when he intended to playfully bump his shoulder, it almost knocked him sideways.

Feliks wanted something to be said instead of this flirtatious teasing they were doing. Toris probably didn't even know he was doing it, the flustered little guy. And there he was, scooting close again, pressing their sides together, and Feliks was getting really warm now; he put his arm around Toris's middle, and was far too grateful when the other didn't totally flip out at the contact like he had last time.

(Sobbing and clawing and struggling for a way out out out, 'Russiadonthurtme' falling from his lips.)

Childishly clinging to this little moment of affection and wondering why Toris was so close all of a sudden.

He turned to face his friend, saw that Toris was already turning to look at him. Toris's green eyes were dark with some emotion that Feliks hadn't seen there before; he could see the reflection of fire flickering there, and trace the shadows that the flame cast across his face.

The curve of an eyebrow, the brightness of an eye, the thin thin line where fire met night… it was intimate and quiet, and Feliks needed noise now, needed one of them to talk before they both totally messed this up, and his throat was hurting, of all places, his throat, tightening up and cutting off his air supply until he thought he would choke to death from want.

And Toris looked so focused, an expression he rarely donned; Feliks had seen it only a few times, usually when the two used to play chess together, or when…

But this time Toris had something new, something unfamiliar, and Feliks was struggling to puzzle together what it was.

"F-Feliks," Toris stuttered out his name, and his voice was thin like Russian air, breath uneven (or maybe that was Feliks); those eyes were shiny and wide and that face was framed by messy dark hair that Feliks found himself wanting to take in fistfuls and yank him forward.

Feliks felt so heavy all of a sudden. His heart was pounding its imprint into his ribcage, leaving cracks there in the shape of Liet's name, but mostly he felt himself leaning in closer.

Felt warm breath on his skin, Toris's breath, and thought they must be telepathically connected or something because all of these jumbled thoughts couldn't all be his own.

Toris's hands were clenched on the couch, but Feliks's came up and around his head, ran his fingers through the messy locks there; cupped the back of his neck and felt Toris's pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.

They were mere centimeters apart from one another, hesitant but both of them were statically charged, enough to make the little hairs on his arm stand up and his fingers were itching to touch and his lips were tingling in anticipation…

And then…

It was hardly there at all, just the lightest brush of lips and Toris's voice, "m-mh" like a protest, and Feliks's mind was screaming from it, insisting "not just this, not just this and nothing more."

Toris seemed to have heard it, that mantra repeating itself in their telepathic link, because he fumbled before he leaned forward like it was his first kiss or something, eyes squeezed shut until it made Feliks want to laugh, except it wasn't funny damn it no not funny.

The beat of Toris's heart against his own chest made him feel safe, and he could only note that Toris's lips were chapped, which Feliks should have expected, the opposite from himself in every way. Feliks could have applauded as Toris's tongue poked shyly at his lips, and he gave no protest or hesitation as he returned the motion with full enthusiasm, exploring Toris's mouth, enjoying the intimacy here.

And… then it was over, they had pulled apart and were just looking half-lidded at one another, hands tight over each other's clothes. Feliks opened his mouth to say something but then Toris just looked away from him and into the fire again.

…right.

"Like, Liet?"

"I… I've wanted to do that for a-a-a long time, you know. I've… thought about it, and I've dreamt about it, but… but you meant so much to me, and I-I didn't want to m-m-mess it up, I…"

This sudden confession seemed almost redundant. Feliks had known, or at least suspected, for centuries. The looks Toris gave couldn't be mistaken for anything else, but he had never known that darkness to it, that unfamiliarity there.

What had Russia done to him?

Feliks sighed, leaning playfully into Toris's shoulder. "I, like, totally understand. We should, like, do it again."

Toris's head shot up in surprise and he looked at him, eyebrows raised. "You're not mad?"

"Liet. Shut up and kiss me again."

Seeing Toris light up like that was like Christmas or something, and they kissed again, and this time Feliks took mental notes on every little bit of his friend, every detail, every breath and shiver…

Took notes on everything of Toris that Russia would never have.

In this kiss, he pressed protection into Toris's lips and held fistfuls of his clothes in his hands and, inside, he laughed.

* * *

**A/N:**_ I enjoyed writing this one. PolLiet is one of my favorite pairings... they're just too cute, aren't they? *squee* Ahem. Next: Near. Even with Spain so close, he's never really looking at Romano, is he?_


	44. Near

Sometimes Romano really did question his brother's intelligence. Part of him knew that Feliciano wasn't an idiot – just sensitive, just more in tune with the world than Romano himself was. But to be so fucking _close_ to Germany, close enough to touch, close enough to make that expression at one another (like Germany didn't know how Feliciano felt, bastard, like he wanted to break his heart all over again)…

To be so close, and to not _see_ it there – sometimes he could only wonder.

(Sometimes Romano looked at Germany, and saw the blue-eyed dark-coat prince that Feliciano had originally fallen in love with. The Empire that had striven for big dreams – and shattered them. Shattered his brother as well.)

But no. Feliciano wasn't an idiot; he just didn't know how damn lucky he was to have what he wanted be so fucking close, all the time, to have those eyes on him every moment of every day, to have that loyalty and that faith and that… friendship.

To have what Romano never could.

Because as much as he envied his brother's position (close, so close), he never stood up for his own chance at closeness. Antonio's eyes were green as summer grass, but Romano couldn't tell him so; Antonio's skin was tanned, sun-kissed, fingertips slightly calloused from the handling of weapons, from work around the house. Romano imaged that Antonio tasted like fine wine and tomatoes when he was kissed, and that those hands would play at the hairs at the nape of Romano's neck-

But he never found out for himself, because Spain didn't want him.

No matter how close he tried to get (discreetly, of course, never had the courage to say anything outright, unwilling to humiliate himself in that regard), Spain's eyes were never quite looking at him. His skin was warm under Romano's own (with their hands clasped as if they would drift away if he let go), his smile bright (to hide the loss of something greater than unrequited love), his hair mussed (from running through wind, not any act of passion on Romano's part).

Those eyes, however, never shined the way they used to. Not since the breakup of their Trio.

Even with an arm around Romano's thin shoulders, holding him close, that mouth whispering '_mi Lovino_' into his ear—

--Spain was never _with_ him, was he?

Really, sometimes Feliciano didn't know how good he really had it.

* * *

**A/N:**_ So, yes. My fail attempt at writing Romano. I prefer writing Spain. *headdesk* Anyways... Next: Natural. America had once considered his best friends in the world to be his animals. Where are they now?_


	45. Natural

As a small collection of American colonies-- No. No, even before England had stepped his booted foot onto his precious soil, before he knew the sight of pale skin or the sound of rum sloshing in a dirty bottle, Alfred – then called "Stone in the Stream" – had valued the promise that friendship brought.

At the time, he had been such a small little thing, with no true government or common goal, but with a purpose nonetheless. He had been surrounded by red-faced men and women who wove beads and feathers into his short hair, painted his face with vibrant colors; the Cherokee, the Iroquois, the Choctaw, the Chickasaw, the Sioux. They loved him and worshipped him, admired the way he seemed to stand so still in the time that rushed everyone else by.

He'd loved them as well; saw them as family and friends, and though he didn't quite understand what he was at the time, he'd known he was different from them, and not just by the color of his skin. He was different because they aged, because their children grew up to be such tall, brave warriors – and he never did.

He was different because he never grew old.

Tribes thrived, tribes died out, tribes went to war with one another, or else they made friendships like the ones Alfred had forged with his animals.

If he'd thought he loved his people, the love he felt for his animals was truly indescribable. He respected them more than he'd ever respected anything else. Rabbits especially; he would crouch down at the edge of a bush and hold out a hand, rub his fingers together, and they would come to him in twos, rubbing their soft little heads against his skin.

The deer came as well, though they were always more jumpy than the bunnies were, and following the deer came the birds, the squirrels, the buffalo, the big dogs that Spain had brought with him when he visited that one time, the wolves, so many animals, so much family, so many friends. Nip at his fingers lovingly, lick at his hair (leaving that damn cowlick he can't get rid of even today).

They were his friends where he didn't have any others. When his natives fought, his animals were always at peace; when England came to bribe his people free of their land, his animals stuck close and friendly; and when England swooped him up into his arms, named him this strange and English name, his animals still had their unspoken vow to love him.

His animals were his only friends in the world when the Revolution came and passed; he even kept a dog with him to keep him warm in his tent when they had to set up camp.

So it was odd now, as an Independent and Powerful World Leader, to see his "friends" so afraid of him. Flinching away from his touch when he would reach between the bars of cages to pet them; ears back and flat on their little heads, wolves' teeth bared, mountain lions shying away from him…

Even the rabbits scurried away when they heard the fall of his boots.

(Behind his eyes, the images flashed of their homes being sawed down for timber, apartment complexes driving away the homes of millions. And himself behind the chainsaws and the giant machines – destroying them.)

In this strange world, where he had brought upon the economic crises that had so many nations bedridden with illness… the United States of America didn't know the meaning of friendship as he once did.

(He supposed that was just his nature; to drive his "friends" away.)

* * *

**A/N:** _Sometimes I wonder what his best friends, the rabbits, would think of him now. Next: Horizon. The sky is the only place America finds escape._


	46. Horizon

A poet had once described the Great Depression in verse:

_Our lives avoided tragedy_

_Simply by going on and on,_

_Without end and with little apparent meaning._

_Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes._

_Simply by going on and on_

_We managed. No need for the heroic._

_Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes._

_I don't remember all the particulars._

Alfred could've shortened that up some. Basically, the Depression era sucked. It was great, and depressing. What more was there to really say?

(_feeling half-starved and bleeding from the lungs, like a certain cowboy he had once known, far too long ago – and part of him had thought, 'I'm coming to join you, Doc, I'm following in your footsteps just like I always wanted'_)

He had found relief wherever he could, swallowed it up like his life depended on it. And maybe it had, back then. Maybe the sheer will of the American people to keep distracted had saved his life more than anything else. In movie theaters with their beloved silent films, with Walt Disney – oh, God bless Disney and that steamboat genius of a cartoon – or else in dance halls while swing pumped through his people's veins like lifeblood.

Alfred himself liked these things as much as his people did (that's what a nation was, the embodiment of his people and his people's tastes), but he had found something else to keep his mind off of starvation and blood loss.

The sky offered far more to Alfred Jones in the way of happiness than any film ever could. The people who hid from their troubles in dark theaters didn't know the freedom of the blessed sky, and it was because of that that Alfred felt almost sorry for them. A wide expanse of blue-and-white lay out before him like a gift; this was the only thing he was positive was for him alone. He made the sky available, nobody else. America had made this horizon an option to touch.

So it was on the worse days in the 1930s – when Alfred felt like he could accomplish nothing but to lie there and cough up the blood of his people – that he would find himself strapped in a biplane, pilot's hat and goggles secure on his head, bomber jacket (it had been new, back then) tight around his shoulders, and he would speed down the makeshift runway before lifting off.

Wind would tear at his face as he picked up speed, the entirety of this beautiful open sky soaring past him, and sometimes if he was feeling brave, he would reach one arm out and practically touch the clouds, and he would laugh like Steamboat Willie, laugh like a silent film because it was lost in the rushing air.

Flying. This was where he belonged, what his heart called for.

(_sometimes he could almost taste the exact shade of blue as it tore past him; like tea and burnt scones and other tastes he could never possess for his very own – but he could have this, couldn't he?_)

Touching down again was sometimes the hardest thing he'd ever done. The wind would die down as he slowed, his face flushed and burning under his hat, mouth open from the adrenaline of having spread his wings once more.

Back to earth. Back to this hell hole he called home, back to looking in the mirror and seeing not the eagle he wanted to be, but… seeing this teenage boy who woke up every morning vomiting and in a cold sweat.

Seeing the broken-down child that England saw him as.

Even hiding in movie theaters, burying himself in Disney and black-and-white silence… even touching the horizons couldn't make that goddamn reflection go away.

Flying didn't make him happy. It just helped him to forget this fact, for a while.

* * *

**A/N:** _America really does belong in the sky. Always has. Thank God for inventing the airplane, yes? Next: Valiant. In the burning heat of Iran, Canada rediscovers what it means to be a brother._


	47. Valiant

**A/N:** _The **Iran hostage crisis** was a diplomatic crisis between Iran and the United States. 52 Americans were held hostage for 444 days from November 4, 1979 to January 20, 1981, after a group of Islamist students and militants took over the American Embassy in support of the Iranian Revolution. The Canadian ambassador at the time, Ken Taylor, helped Parliament to pass a special legislation allowing passports to be issued to American hostages in order to help them escape. Taylor's plan to get the hostages out of Iran has become known as "The Canadian Caper."_

_

* * *

_It hadn't taken long to search out the presence that Canada had been wishing to find. After all, the two of them shared a bond unlike any other – the bond of brotherhood, the same blood pouring through their veins, and the nearly psychic connection between their parallel thoughts.

So to hold his gun with steady hands and find America curled up on a dirty floor, burnt from Middle Eastern sun and bruised from beatings… it was something that Canada didn't wish to ever witness again.

He dropped his weapon once the others were out, ran forward, and gathered his brother into his arms like they would as children after the horrid nightmares he knew America suffered. America trembled in his arms but didn't make a sound other than the dry sobs of _'thank you, thank you_' and the soft whimpers of a need for water.

It was in these times that Canada would remember what it meant to be a brother. To see America so broken and in shambles was a privilege only for family; America would have never let England see him like this, nor France, nor Prussia, nor Spain, nor any of the others who had known him as a child. Just Canada, because Canada knew the other's pain more than anyone else in the world; because Canada could feel it to some extent. The physical trials of the burning sun and the desert-dry mouth, as well as the heavy weight of shame on normally strong shoulders.

Of course, America never thanked him for the rescue in Iran. He returned to his duties as the United States in almost no time at all after the order had been given by the Prime Minister to save him in that stupid hostage crisis – and he ate burgers and smiled and laughed at his own jokes, and seemed to find Canada invisible once again.

Not once did gratitude ever make itself known for the sheer horror of seeing one's own brother in that state.

But later, when America's shields had come down and just Alfred lie beside him on the sofa while "Casablanca" played in quiet Bogart murmurs in the background… only then did Alfred press a kiss to Matthew's cheek and mutter, "That was a brave thing you did, Mattie."

So it wasn't a 'thank you,' but Canada understood what it meant. Better than anyone else, he understood.

* * *

**A/N:** _Up next - Virtuous, in which Spain rethinks his opinion on the Mexico siblings._


End file.
